


Ease My Mind, Slowly

by thechoicewasallmine



Series: Sometimes I Feel Like Giving Up [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anorexia, Anxiety, Bisexual Peter Parker, Coming Out, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Much more comfort here, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Purging, Recovery, Sick Peter Parker, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-11-13 05:52:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18025955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechoicewasallmine/pseuds/thechoicewasallmine
Summary: "I had my fingers down my throat, that’s nothing to be proud of.”“Right, and instead of following through on that instinct you came here and asked for help."“I should be better than this by now—”“Stop,” Bucky interrupts him, not unkindly. “You know there’s no use in entertaining those thoughts. Recovery isn’t linear, and some days will be harder than others; you know that. You did exactly the right thing by coming down here and being honest. We’re going to help you get through this kiddo, I promised, and I meant it.”Or: 5 times Peter asks the Avengers for help and the one time he doesn't have to





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picking up right where we left off. Trigger warnings for frank discussions of psychiatric medications and their side effects, and references to eating disorder behaviors.

“Huh? Times’it?”

“The time is 3:42 am. I have woken you at the request of Mr. Parker, sir.”

Tony rubs his eyes blearily in the dark of his bedroom. “Details, please.”

“Mr. Parker did not provide many, but he appears to be in distress.”

“Nightmare?” he wonders as he stumbles to his feet and pulls on a robe.

“He has not gone to sleep.”

“Elaborate, FRIDAY,” he bites out sharply, annoyed with the vague responses, concern growing the more he wakes up.

The last time Peter reached out for help, it was because he wanted to jump off the roof.

“Mr. Parker has been in the bathroom for 20 minutes; his pulse and respiration rate are elevated but other vitals are normal.”

The man swears to himself. “Dammit, those are details I would’ve liked from the beginning, FRIDAY.” He hurries down the hall to the elevator and taps his foot impatiently as it moves down to Peter’s floor. “I swear to god, I’m donating you to the kids at MIT.”

The AI has the sense to stay quiet.

Tony enters Peter’s bedroom at the same moment that the kid steps out of the bathroom, one hand on his abdomen, the other tightly gripping the doorframe. He looks awful. His face is pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, his eyes are bloodshot, and he’s swaying on his feet.

“Pete?”

At first, the teen doesn’t react to the sight of Tony, he just pulls the bathroom door shut and stumbles over to his bed, crawling on top of the covers and curling up on his side. He wraps both arms around his middle and lets out a shuddering breath before he finally looks up at his mentor.

“Sorry for waking you up,” he whispers.

“I’d say don’t sweat it, but it looks like you’re already doing that.” The joke falls flat as Peter’s face scrunches up in pain. Tony gentles his tone, “What’s going on, kiddo?”

“Hurts,” Peter whimpers.

“Yeah, I figured as much.” He sits on the edge of Peter’s bed and puts a steadying hand on his ankle. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that.”

Peter takes in a deep breath, ready to describe what’s been going on and what he thinks the cause is, but another cramp hits and he barely manages to mumble, “Stomach hurts real bad.”

Tony’s heart drops. “FRIDAY, what happened to protocol 943?”

“Protocol still in place, boss.”

Peter frowns. “No, no, I didn’t…this isn’t that,” he insists.

“Your stomach isn’t hurting because you purged?” the man questions doubtfully.

He shakes his head. “No, I swear, it’s been almost a week. I, um, I think it might be the meds?”

And that’s…huh. Tony didn’t think to watch out for side effects, how could he have missed that? “It’s only been three days since you started them, but…FRIDAY?”

There’s a pause before the AI reports, “The side effects of antidepressants can start anywhere from 12 hours to 2 weeks after the first dose, and Mr. Parker’s symptoms are consistent with severe SSRI side effects.”

The teen lets out another whimper at the confirmation. He knows he can’t just stop taking his medicine just because he has a stomach ache.

Tony rubs his ankle. “What else hurts, buddy?”

“My head, m’nauseous, dizzy, can’t stop shaking or sweating.”

The man makes a sympathetic noise. “Did these symptoms just start?”

Peter nods. “’Bout 3 hours ago.”

His kid has been suffering alone for three hours. “Why didn’t you come get me earlier?”

“I didn’t think it’d get this bad. You told me to expect side effects and I thought I could just deal with them but…Mr. Stark, I can’t—god, I feel so sick.” And Peter is not going to cry just because he doesn’t feel well, this is ridiculous.

“Alright, Pete, I hear you, we’ll figure this out.”

The teen nods again, and not for the first time Tony is startled by the amount of faith Peter has in him.

“Let’s try to manage these symptoms before we worry about changing your dose. Have you been throwing up?”

Peter shakes his head, then hesitates, cheeks turning red. “No, um, the other one.”

Tony just barrels right on. “Stomach cramps?”

Another nod. “Really, really bad.” His voice cracks slightly, letting Tony know just how true that statement is.

“Have you been staying hydrated?”

“Ran out of water,” he jerks his chin toward the empty glass on his nightstand. “Too dizzy to go get more.”

“Alright, let’s start with that. I’ll get you some water and I think I can come up with something that should ease the knives-in-your-stomach feeling,” he pats the kid’s leg and stands up. “Will you be ok for 5 minutes?”

Peter nods gratefully. “Yeah, thanks Mr. Stark.”

“You got it, pal.” He heads for the door. “FRIDAY, keep an eye on him. You know, if you’re still capable of doing that sort of thing.”

“Affirmative, boss.”

Tony makes his way to Natasha’s floor; it’s closer than the Medbay and she has what he’s looking for.

“Is she asleep?” he asks the AI.

“Yes.”

He sighs. Waking up a super assassin was so not on his list of things to do tonight.

Tony pads down the hallway of her floor and taps once on her bedroom door. She’s opening it for him before he can even finish, doing an excellent job of pretending she wasn’t asleep thirty seconds ago.

“What’s wrong?”

“You know, I’m going to start not believing you when you say you can’t read minds,” he says as he moves passed her towards her bathroom.

“It’s 4am and your eyes are doing that worry thing,” she points out, bored. “It’s Peter, isn’t it?” She meets his eyes in the mirror from behind him and gives him a knowing look.

“Side effects are kicking his ass right now, I need to steal some of your hyoscyamine,” he says as he starts rummaging through her medicine cabinet. If he wasn’t otherwise occupied, he might stop to marvel at how close he’s gotten with the rest of the team; being allowed to rummage through the Black Widow’s medicine cabinet at 4 in the morning is no small thing—the obvious show of trust would be heartwarming under other circumstances.

As it is, Tony only has mind for helping Peter feel better. He should’ve been more prepared to deal with side effects before he even started giving the kid an antidepressant. Tony doesn’t like feeling unprepared.

Natasha isn’t surprised that the kid isn’t feeling well. Lexapro knocked her on her ass the first time she took it, too, and she is a full-grown adult, not an underweight teenager.

She raises her eyebrows as Tony shakes a few of the anti-spasmodic tablets into his hand. “You think that’ll work on him?”

For a moment, the man looks defeated. “I sincerely hope so because there’s not much else I can do until I can speak to his doctors later.”

“Do you need back up?”

Tony gives her a rare soft smile. “Thanks, but I think we’ll be alright.”

She squeezes his arm. “Good luck, Tony.”

He stops at the kitchen on Peter’s floor to fill up a glass of water before returning to the kid’s bedroom.

Peter is still curled up on his side, tighter than before, and his face is twisted in pain, eyes squeezed shut. Tony is slightly alarmed when he realizes that he wishes he could take the pain for him.

“I have some medicine for you, Pete,” he says quietly, coming to sit in the spot he occupied earlier.

The teen’s expression doesn’t change but he manages to gasp out, “Yeah, okay, one sec.” He’s trying to breathe steadily through the stabbing pain in his stomach, but his body won’t stop trembling regardless.

“The shakes really got you, huh?” Tony worries, as even the kid’s tight grip on his pillow isn’t enough to hide the shaking in his hands.

Peter nods miserably, taking short, shallow breaths as he rides out the cramp.

Tony puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You’re okay, just breathe,” he soothes.

“Hurts,” Peter whines through his teeth.

“Do you need the bathroom?”

“No,” he chokes out, embarrassed. “Not yet. I’m okay.”

The cramp slowly loosens it’s hold, and Peter tries to take some deep breaths, wincing when doing so causes his sore abdomen to expand. Slowly dragging himself to a slightly more upright position, he’s finally able to look up at Mr. Stark and take the tablet he’s offering.

“Dissolve that under your tongue,” the man instructs.

Peter does, and then accepts the glass of water in a trembling hand. He manages a small sip, but the cold water in his stomach increases his nausea and he has to put the glass back down.

He slumps back against his pillows. “Ow.”

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet.” Good to see the dry humor isn’t gone.

“I don’t suppose I can stop taking the pills now?” Peter asks hopefully.

“Nope, sorry kiddo, you know it’s not that easy.”

Peter sighs. “I know, but— “.

“I’ll talk to Banner as soon as he gets up, maybe there’s something else we can do while we wait for a more reasonable hour to contact your psychiatrist. But, in the meantime, I really don’t think you should skip your morning dose.”

Peter’s face crumples. “Mr. Stark…”

“I know, I know you’re hurting, but if I let you miss a dose it’s only going to make things worse. I’m not out to get you, Pete, you know that.”

“I know...I—I just don’t want to keep feeling like this,” his voice cracks again and his lip starts to quiver.

Now Tony sighs. “C’mere, kid.” He gathers Peter in his arms and squeezes his shoulder in comfort. After a few moments of silence he admits, “I wish Pepper wasn’t in LA; she’s way better at this than I am.”

Peter lets out a wet laugh and wipes under his eyes. “I think you’re doing alright.”

He’s leaning against Tony’s side, so the man feels it when Peter tenses up again. The teen pushes himself to his feet as quickly as he can, but only makes it a few steps before his knees give out and he crumples to the floor.

“Oh, Jesus kid,” Tony mutters as he hurries to help him up.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Shh,” he soothes, “not mad, just worried about you.” At the suggestion of Peter’s therapist, Tony has been working hard on elaborating on his thoughts around the kid, something the teen has really started to respond to. The clearer he is, the less room there is for Peter’s brain to twist his words into something negative.

Tony drapes Peter’s arm over his shoulder and half-carries him into the bathroom. He makes sure he’s not going to fall face first onto the tiles before stepping out into the bedroom and closing the door behind him. He sits back on the bed and switches the TV on to give the kid some privacy.

Nearly ten minutes pass before he emerges, even weaker than before. Tony helps him across the room without waiting for the kid to ask and encourages him to drink some more water.

“This sucks,” Peter whines.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Tony frowns, frustrated that he can’t do more to help. “That medicine should kick in soon, we can try another one if it doesn’t.”

“Ok,” the teen says simply, exhausted from feeling so ill. He’s quite for a moment before he begins, hesitantly, “Hey, Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah Pete?”

“Is this what it felt like when you stopped drinking?”

There’s a long list of things that Tony does not talk about. His addiction is right there at the top of that list.

But the kid is looking up at him with those earnest eyes, he’s being vulnerable by asking for help, and the least Tony can do is return some of that honesty.

“Pretty much,” he starts on a long exhale. “The shaking and sweating were bad enough, but then I started puking and didn’t stop for two whole days.”

Peter makes a sympathetic noise. “That sounds awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Peter, don’t.”

The teen startles at the sudden harshness in Mr. Starks voice.

Tony takes a deep breath before continuing, “Alcoholism is a disease, yes, but I’m the one who chose to start drinking as a teenager; no one forced me to. I made a series of bad decisions and got addicted, and then ignored the people who tried to help me for over 10 years. Withdrawal sucked, but I could’ve avoided it if I had made better choices. Save your compassion for yourself, Pete.”

“If you don’t deserve it, then neither do I,” Peter mumbles into his pillow.

Pushing down the sharp anger that he wants to respond with, Tony asks gently, “Why do you say that?”

“I should’ve been stronger,” Peter bites out, “I shouldn’t have let myself get this sick. And I never reached out for help, either. I was mean to everyone when you were all just trying to help; I don’t understand why you’re even still here.”

Again, Tony’s first reaction is anger. How can the brilliant teen in front of him speak of himself so lowly?

But he’s not mad at Peter, not really. He’s mad at the illnesses that have destroyed his self esteem and, even more so, mad at himself for not noticing before things had progressed this far.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I spilt Rhodey’s head opened?”

Peter startles. “What?”

“Oh, buckle up kiddo, this is quite the story.” Tony grins, but he’s nervous about sharing this with Peter. It’s one of his worst memories.

“So, we had just graduated MIT—”

“Both summa cum laude,” Peter interjects with a proud smile.

Tony smiles warmly. “True. We were newly graduated and felt like we could take on the world, we were invincible young adults with college degrees and we definitely let that get to our heads. We lived together, my old place in Malibu before the mansion, and it was a lot like college 2.0. There were tons of parties and even more day drinking—on my part, never Rhodey’s. One day he tried to tell me that it wasn’t healthy to drink scotch first thing in the morning.” The man sucks in a breath before the admission: “So, I threw the bottle—the mostly full bottle—straight at his head. I wasn’t even drunk, so my aim was perfect. 18 stitches and many _many_ years later, and I’m still not sure why Rhodey is my friend.”

“You were sick, Mr. Stark.” Peter is shaking his head, those big brown eyes full of honesty and affection. “Rhodey knows that, and he cares about you, of course he’d still be your friend. Even during the worst times, you were more than just an alcoholic.”

The man reaches out to squeeze Peter’s knee. “Peter, buddy,” Tony’s voice takes on a pleading tone, “please tell me you can see how your situation is no different.”

Now the teen shakes his head sharply, face pinched in disbelief.

“Look at me, please,” the man requests softly, “I want you to see my face when I say this.”

Slowly, Peter raises his gaze and meets his mentor’s eyes.

“Your mental illnesses are not your fault, Peter Parker.” At the kid’s vehement head shake, Tony continues forcefully, “Nope, I mean it. Your recent actions have not been a reflection of who you are because who you are is brilliant and funny and kind and compassionate and I know, _I know_ you can’t see that right now, but I’m telling you that I can. I’m still here because I care about you and I’m not going to stop caring just because you’re sick.”

Tears start rolling down Peter’s cheeks and Tony is in real danger of following suit.

“Signing those guardianship papers all those months ago was one of the easiest decisions I’ve ever had to make, and every day I thank my lucky stars for whatever I did to end up with a kid like you in my life. You’re not alone in this fight, Pete. I’m here, I’m right here.”

* * *

 

“I said that I don’t feel well enough to eat anything.”

“I understand that, Peter, but you don’t have a choice right now. I’m not asking.” Tony pushes the cup of applesauce across the table.

The kid stares down at it like it personally offended him. It probably did.

 After a long night, Peter finally fell asleep around 4:30am, only to be woken up by Mr. Stark at 7, handing him his next dose of Lexapro. Then the man dragged him to the common kitchen and now here they are.

The anger lingers in Peters expression for a few moments, but then, like a switch, he looks up at Tony with fear and desperation in his eyes.

“Please, please don’t make me eat,” he begs, “it’s going to hurt my stomach so much and I can’t handle all of that pain again. I swear I’m not just saying that because I don’t want to eat; I _can’t_ eat right now, please.”

“Peter—”

“No, Mr. Stark, please, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Tony’s voice is unwavering while his heart is breaking. God, how do parents do this?

“No,” Peter moans and covers his face with his hands.

“You’re not leaving this table until you finish that, so you better start now.”

When Peter drops his hands, Tony is unsurprised to see tears in his eyes. “It’s going to hurt so bad,” he whines, “please.”

The man doesn’t budge. “What’s going to hurt worse is keeping that pill in an empty stomach, I’m trying to help you here, kid.”

“He’s right.”

Tony nearly sighs with relief when Bruce sweeps into the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee pot.

“Lexapro can be harsh on an empty stomach,” he says as he pours a cup, “It’s in your best interest to eat that.”

“I just don’t want to feel sick anymore,” he continues to whine, fully aware that he sounds like a child throwing a tantrum but unable to care passed the fear and the revulsion that he feels towards eating right now.

“I hear you, Peter,” Bruce soothes, “but not eating isn’t going to make you feel better.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m a doctor. Eat.”

And Peter hates how flippantly Dr. Banner says that, hates how easy he makes it sound. Of course, if he could ‘just eat’, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

But he doesn’t have the energy to argue this morning. He takes the cup of applesauce and the spoon from Mr. Stark and takes a small, unenthusiastic mouthful.

“If you eat that slowly, we’ll be here all day,” Dr. Banner chides.

Peter flinches. He doesn’t like being watched while he eats.

Tony glares daggers at Bruce for the insensitivity of his comment. “Let him,” he says sharply, before turning to Peter with a kinder expression. “Take your time, kiddo. No rush.”

Peter ducks his head and pokes at the applesauce with the tip of the spoon. He clears his throat before admitting, “Um, I—if you could, it’d be easier for me to eat if you did, too.”

“Oh,” Tony is a little taken aback by the request, but he’ll do anything to help his kid. “Of course, Pete. Thank you for telling me what you need.”

“Would you rather wait until after we eat to talk?” Bruce asks hesitantly, afraid of saying the wrong thing like he’s done so often over the past few weeks.

“No, no,” Peter says hurriedly, “let’s talk now, please. I need the distraction.”

“Alright,” Bruce plops down with his bowl of fruit, “how have you been feeling since you woke up?”

“Dizzy, nauseous, shaky.”

“Were you experiencing any of those symptoms before last night?”

“Yeah, I’ve been dizzy since the day I took the first dose.”

Once again, Tony is frustrated at his lack of oversight. “Bud, I thought we agreed you were going to keep me updated if there were any side effects.”

Peter ducks his head and the spoonful of applesauce nearly gets stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry, it just wasn’t a big deal and I thought I could handle it and-“

Tony puts a gentle hand on Peter’s arm to stop him, “I’m not mad, kiddo, I just can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. I know you don’t think you deserve the help right now, but I do, okay? So please, let me help.”

Peter nods slowly. “I’ll try.”

The man gives him a small smile and pats his arm before sitting back up and looking at Dr. Banner, prompting him to continue.

“Has the dizziness gotten any worse?” Bruce wonders.

Peter nods again and Tony mentions, “He fell last night.”

Dr. Banner nods thoughtfully. “Have you been drinking enough water? Or only as much as your stomach has been able to handle?”

“Um, I’m not sure?” He looks to Mr. Stark for help.

“He hasn’t been drinking enough to replace everything he’s been losing, but he shouldn’t be so dehydrated that he’s dizzy or shaky, I think that’s from the Lexapro.”

“Alright,” Bruce sighs, “let’s see how you feel after more water another cup of applesauce and go from there.”

Another cup? Peter’s nausea doubles. “Dr. Banner...” he starts.

“Nope, sorry Peter, not up for discussion. The only reason I’m letting you eat so little right now is because I know how sick you feel. 100 calories is nowhere near enough of a breakfast for you.”

Peter pushes away the empty container and puts his head in his hands. “Can we please not talk about calories?”

Bruce rubs a rough hand down his face. Will he ever get this right? “Of course, I’m sorry.”

“Here, kid,” Tony slides another cup across the table and Peter reluctantly catches it.

FRIDAY’s voice interrupts the tense silence, “Sir, Dr. Alex has responded to your request and is available for a 9 am meeting, shall I send a confirmation?”

“Yes, thanks FRI.”

“Is Jaime coming?” Peter asks in a small voice.

“She’s out of town today, sorry Pete,” Tony tells him regretfully.

The teen shrugs but his eyes are burning. “‘S’okay.”

“I’ll be there if you want me to be.”

He slumps in relief. “Please.”

Tony reaches out to squeeze Peter’s arm again. “You got it, kiddo.”

 

Nearly half an hour later, the time it took for Peter to force down the second cup of applesauce through the pain in his stomach, he’s lying on the couch with his head on Bucky’s thigh and his feet in Natasha’s lap. The solider is running his hand through Peter’s hair, telling him a story about Steve nearly dying when he insisted on bringing home a stray cat that he was highly allergic to. Nat is reading something in Russian, she started to explain it but Peter stopped her when she got to the part about the bloodthirsty wolf. She has an eclectic taste in novels.

Bucky doesn’t stop talking when he noticed Peter’s hands start to shake, he just puts his metal arm across the kid’s chest and has to stop himself from making a surprised noise when he clutches at it. He’s still not used to people touching it willingly, still unused to seeing it as anything other than a weapon.

“Of course, he ended up bringing the cat to the only no-kill shelter in Brooklyn,” he finishes with a huff of laughter.

“Of course,” Peter echoes, but it sounds flat even to his own ears.

“You alright, pal?”

“Not really.”

“Stomach?”

“Yeah,” the reply comes out as more of a groan.

“Did the hyoscyamine work last night?” Nat wonders.

Peter nods. “For a while, yeah. I had to take 2 though.”

“And you already took two this morning?”

Another nod.

Nat makes a sympathetic noise. “Anything else you can do?”

“Not eat,” Peter grumbles.

Nat pokes his calf. “Not an option.”

“I know,” he sighs, “I have a meeting with my psychiatrist today, I think he’s going to change my dose.”

Bucky frowns. “I thought the geniuses decided 20 milligrams was the lowest dose that could actually affect your serotonin levels.”

“But if he can’t eat because the medicine is making him so sick, it’s not worth it,” Tony points out as he reenters the room. “We can always up the dose later, once his body has gotten a chance to get used to it.”

“And until then, what?” Natasha challenges. “The medicine won’t be doing anything for him and he can’t go to treatment until you get the meds sorted out, so he’ll just be holed up here getting worse?”

“Can we stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Peter snaps.

Nat deflates. “Sorry, I’m just worried.”

“Me too,” Tony admits, “that’s why his psychiatrist is on his way here. We’ll figure this out.” He holds a hand out to Peter. “C’mon kiddo, Dr. Alex is going to meet us downstairs.”

Peter accepts the outstretched hand but doesn’t let go of the soldier’s arm. “Can Bucky come?”

Tony tries to not let his surprise show on his face. He knows the two have gotten close recently but having him sit in a meeting with his doctor is a big deal. “Of course, you’re the one calling the shots here.”

Peter turns to Bucky. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked you first. Can you?”

The man smiles kindly at him, warmth and belonging settling deep in his chest. “Of course, pal.”

* * *

 

Peter feels like he’s underwater. His worst fear has just been confirmed.

“I’m not talking about a 50-pound weight gain here,” Dr. Alex is saying, “but you need to be prepared to put on 10 pounds or so within the first few weeks.”

He doesn’t even realize he’s shaking his head until he starts to get dizzy. “No, no, I can just—let’s just go back to the other one, it’s fine, 20 milligrams is fine, I don’t need that I—”

“Peter,” the doctor stops him. “I’m here because the Lexapro alone isn’t working. I know this is going to be difficult for you, but I need you to trust me when I say this is the best course of action.”

“But why can’t I just stay on a half dose for a few weeks and then go back up? Why do I need mirtazapine, too?”

“You were actively suicidal less than 5 days ago,” Dr. Alex reminds him gently, “I cannot, in good faith, leave you on a dose that I know isn’t going to be therapeutic for you. You’re sick right now, and you need medicine that will make you feel better right now, not in a few weeks or a few months.”

Peter doesn’t know how to respond, brain still swirling over the guaranteed weight gain that is going to come with his newly prescribed dose of mirtazapine.

“I don’t want to get fat,” he admits, voice trembling.

Bucky holds the kid tighter against his side, grateful for the large couch in the room that allows him and Tony to sandwich Peter between them.

“I know it’s hard to see right now, but these antidepressants are going to help you realize that being healthy does not mean that you’re fat. And as soon as we’ve got the doses sorted out, you’ll start treatment at Summit. This is going to be the start of the rest of your life, Peter. You just have to trust the process.”

* * *

 

“Hey, Pete, how was your first day?” Steve calls with a hopeful smile on his face.

Peter takes two more steps into the common room before his face crumples. Pepper is at his side in a second.

“Oh, honey,” she soothes as she gathers him in her arms, squeezing tight as if she can stop in influx of emotions that has the boy overwhelmed.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasps through his sobs, “I just—”

“I know, I know, it’s okay.” Pepper runs a gentle hand through his hair as she leads him over to the couch, sitting down and settling Peter against her side. She holds him tight and lets him cry.

Treatment was as horrible as Peter expected it to be and then some. It was 4 hours of group therapy, nutrition lessons, and eating. So much eating. He felt fat the second he walked through the treatment center doors; being surrounded by other anorexic patients only served to make him hate himself more. And after being forced to eat more than almost all of the other patients, he feels bloated and uncomfortable and disgusting.

Summit is for people who are really sick, whose lives are being threatened by their eating disorders and who have been suffering for years. Peter throws up sometimes, but he’s not like those other kids. They actually deserve to be there.

The thought that he’s taking a spot at the treatment center away from someone that might actually need it makes him cry even harder, and Pepper just rocks him through it, murmuring into his ear and occasionally pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

The rest of the team is no longer pretending to watch the movie playing on the big screen, instead they’re anxiously waiting for their youngest teammate to stop crying, desperate to help in some way.

Steve is the first to voice his frustration about feeling so helpless. “If this was only after one day, maybe he shouldn’t go—”

He’s cut off by death glares from everyone else in the room.

“No, no,” Peter protests, trying to get his hiccuping breaths under control. “It’s okay, I’m okay, it’s supposed to be hard, I’m just…it’s just…”

“It’s a lot, huh?” Bucky finishes for him.

The teen nods and furiously wipes his tears away. He accepts a tissue from Tony with a mumbled, “thanks.”

“You can hate treatment and still make progress, but if something isn’t right, if there’s a real problem with one of the staff members or something, you can tell me, okay?” Tony is looking at Peter earnestly. “Or if not me, Jaime, or someone else. It's going to get easier with time, I promise.”

“Yeah. I know. Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Pepper asks softly.

Peter coughs out a wet laugh. “Hell no.”

Pepper laughs with him. “Yeah, I figured you've done enough talking today.

Peter turns so he’s less sitting on Pepper’s lap, more curled into her side, and tiredly focuses his attention on the TV.

“What are we watching?”

Clint grins. “The latest in the ‘educate the old men’ series: Footloose.”

“Ugh.” Peter makes a face. “That’s not even a good one.”

Clint starts to protest but Natasha shoves her foot in his face.

“You’re right, this movie sucks,” she says bluntly. “It’s your turn to pick anyway, Peter.”

“What?” He frowns, confused. “No, I picked on Friday.”

“Your turn,” she repeats, leaving no room for argument.

Peter knows exactly what she’s doing, and he appreciates the thought, but he doesn’t have the mental energy to focus on a movie that he likes. “Just leave it,” he shrugs, “I want to nap anyway and this will put me right to sleep.”

Clint throws a pillow at him. Steve throws the remote at Clint.

“Um, ow!” The archer rubs his arm where a bruise is already forming.

“Be nice!” Steve chides. “He’s had a long day.”

The exchange startles a laugh out of Peter, and the room lets out a collective breath at the sound. All is well with the world when Peter Parker laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here!
> 
> This was not originally the first chapter of this fic, in fact, this chapter wasn't going to exist at all. But struggling with medication was such a horrible part of recovery for me and I feel like it doesn't get talked about enough. Sometimes things have to suck for a long time before they get better, but more often, there are other options that you can try so you don't have to suffer, you just have to let the people around you know what's going on.
> 
> Peter is really sick, but he's doing his best to reach out to the team and they are doing their best to be there for him in the ways that he needs.
> 
> I meant to get this up last week but I ended up scrapping the whole thing and starting over because I decided I wanted to write in 3rd person omniscient instead of 3rd person limited (kind of regretting that now, but oh well, too late). As a result, I'm not in love with this chapter, so please if you have anything negative to share, I ask that you please don't, I'm super critical of my writing and constructive criticism usually just makes me sad (it's a character flaw ok I'm working on it).
> 
> This has already been harder to write than the first part of this series but I'm doing my best! See you next week for chapter 2!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Angie you can't skip the entirety of Peter's time in treatment!"  
> Watch me.  
> Trigger warnings for detailed descriptions of eating disorder behaviors and thoughts, insensitivity toward substance abuse, and ignorance surrounding mental health.

School is…different.

Midtown Tech is a small high school, the private, STEM-focused education not for the average student, so word travels fast. If any student missed 6 weeks of classes, they’d be the talk of the school, and Peter isn’t just any student; hasn’t been for over a year. He’s number one in the junior class, he’s one of the best athlete’s the school has, and he lives with the Avengers. Everyone knows Peter Parker.

So, his first day back is actually quite nice.

Random underclassmen smile at him in the hallways, his more-than-acquaintances-but-not-quite-friends tell him how good it is to see him, and his teachers are proud of him for keeping up with his course work while he was away. Even Flash is being nice to him.

“Away” is the word that people keep using. Ned and MJ assure him that no one knows the details, and if he wants things to stay that way, they will. He’s not ready for the whole school to know about his illness and subsequent treatment—things are still far too fragile for that—but he can’t hide the fact that he’s 20 pounds heavier than he was the last time he was at school.

And that’s…fine.

It really is. Peter is fine. Not in the “I’m saying I’m fine because I’m the opposite of fine and don’t want to talk about it” way, but more in the “good is too strong of a word, but I wouldn’t say bad either” way.

Like everyone said it would, treatment got easier with time. Being in a hospital setting with other people suffering from eating disorders made him realize just how sick he was, and how much work he’d have to put in to get better.

He’s not better now, not by a long shot, but after 6 weeks at Summit, he has the tools he needs to continue combatting his eating disorder in his every day life. Because he’s now able to recognize the illness for what it is. Most of the time. He knows now that the disordered thoughts are not his own thoughts, and he can usually call out the eating disorder voices when they pop up.

That doesn’t mean that Peter enjoys opening up his lunch box to a startling amount of food.

In treatment, Peter slowly worked his way up to what an average 17-year-old boy recovering from a restrictive eating disorder would need to eat. But, of course, Peter is enhanced. So the team, along with his doctors, have been helping him follow a meal plan that is still increasing the amount of calories he consumes.

He hates it. He hates it a lot. But he can at least recognize that it’s necessary and that he’ll hate it less and less as long as he sticks to it. It’s not so hard to stay on track when the team is controlling his intake. He can tell that Pepper packed his lunch because there’s a little sticky note with a heart on it. A lump forms in his throat that he struggles to swallow passed. Aunt May used to leave him sticky notes in his lunch box.

“What can I do to make this easier for you?” MJ asks, easily reading Peter thoughts from the look of disdain on his face.

Realizing that he was scowling at his lunch, Peter lifts his head with a sheepish smile. “Um, right now, it’s easier if I don’t have to think too hard about what I’m doing, so if we can talk about literally anything other than food, that would be great.”

He glances around the lunch room quickly, reassuring himself that everyone is eating and chatting and that no one cares how much he’s eating. He deserves this food; his body needs the fuel.

“Did you guys hear about the car accident on Broadway this morning?” Ned wonders to get them all talking. “It’s been all over the news, apparently they’re still cleaning it up.”

“Yeah, I heard the guy who was driving is still alive,” Peter says around a mouthful of sandwich.

“Revived him with Narcan at the scene,” MJ confirms.

Ned makes a frustrated sound. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?” MJ raises her eyebrows.

“He murdered three people, but he gets to live?”

There’s a beat of tense silence.

“Ned, he OD’d on heroin; he wasn’t out to commit first degree murder,” Peter says slowly. Something uneasy settles in his gut at his best friend’s words.

“Exactly,” Ned replies, confused as to why Peter would be defending a killer, given the whole Spider Man thing. “He OD’d and then got into a car, drove down the highway, and ended up killing three innocent people. Why would they bother reviving him?”

“Bro, seriously?” MJ is scowling at him, shaking her head.

“What?”

After a few more seconds of silence when it becomes clear that MJ isn’t going to provide an explanation, Peter does. “That’s insensitive as fuck, dude.”

Ned’s face twists up in confusion. “What? How?”

“The guy’s an addict; he’s sick. Obviously, that doesn’t make it okay for him to endanger others, and it’s horrible that the families of those innocent people have to suffer now, but that doesn’t mean the driver deserves to die.”

“Innocent people are dead. One of them was our age.”

“And you don’t think this guy will be drowning in guilt for the rest of his life over that?” Peter challenges, growing more heated now, lunch forgotten.

“He better be,” Ned replies shortly.

“Look, Ned, him being an addict doesn’t excuse his behavior, it just explains it. I’m not saying what he did wasn’t irresponsible and reckless or that he shouldn’t be prosecuted for this; but he’s a victim, too.”

“How can you say that?”

“He’s a victim of substance abuse disorder.”

Ned’s mouth clicks shut. He stares down at his hands, trying to sort out how he really feels about all of this.

“If he was schizophrenic instead of an addict, would you feel differently?” MJ challenges.

“Of course, no one chooses schizophrenia,” Ned answers easily.

“There’s a strong genetic component to additions, and obviously environment plays a huge role…” she trails off.

Ned sighs. “Yeah, and?”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs, doing a good job of pretending to be unaffected by the whole conversation, “don’t judge what you know nothing about.”

With that, she stalks off, tossing her uneaten lunch in the garbage and heading for the library. She doesn’t have the energy for this bullshit today.

“Dammit, Ned,” Peter groans, debating whether or not he should go after her, knowing that if he skipped lunch on his first day back he’d start spiraling into a relapse before he could stop it.

“What? What did I say?”

“Her brother was an addict, you idiot.”

Ned’s heart drops. “Fuck. _Fuck._ I didn’t know.” He frantically gathers up his things, he needs to go after her. He’s about to stand up when he locks eyes with Peter. “Shit, wait, I can stay with you—”

“No,” Peter cuts him off, “MJ needs you more than I do right now. I’ll be fine. Go fix what you fucked up.”

“Are you sure—”

“ _Go,_ Ned.” Peter shoves him. “And maybe listen to what she’s saying this time before you talk shit about things you don’t understand.”

He hangs his head for a second. “You’re right, I was a dick.”

“I’m not the one that needs to hear that. Go. Fix it.”

Ned goes.

* * *

 

“You know that I have, like, three mental illnesses that I’m dealing with at any given time, right?”

Ned sighs. “Peter—”

“No, dude, for real. Even if you don’t think alcoholism or any other substance abuse is on the same level as anorexia, they’re all in the DSM.”

The boys have been hanging out in Peter’s room since school got out; MJ cancelled decathlon practice claiming she wasn’t feeling well, but Ned confessed that he thinks it’s his fault; that she doesn’t want to see him.

He’s sitting cross-legged on Peter’s bed, scrolling through lines of code that connect his web-shooters to the suit. He wants to prevent his best friend from breaking another ankle.

Meanwhile said best friend is hanging from the ceiling, his feet wrapped around a line of web, scrolling through twitter. He likes the ceiling; being upside down is relaxing.

Ned sighs again. “I know what the DSM says.”

“Then why were you such a dick a lunch today? That’s so unlike you.”

The boy shrugs. He doesn’t want to get into it, but he can hear the insistent tone in Peter’s voice.

“I apologized to both of you, like, 42 times. Can we just let it go?”

“Nope,” Peter pops the ‘p’. “Seriously, man, what gives?”

“Peter—”

“Ned.”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Peter hesitates. “So, there is something to talk about?”

Ned doesn’t answer.

Peter silently lowers himself to the floor and crawls across his bed until he’s sitting cross legged directly across from Ned, their knees touching. “Hey,” he starts gently, “you know you can tell me anything, right?”

Ned just nods, not meeting his eyes. He’s biting his tongue so hard he can taste blood. He wants to tell Peter, but he can’t get the words out.

He tells him as much in ASL. _I can’t._

“Hey, that’s okay, sign if you need to.”

Ned leans toward Peter in response to the gentleness in his voice. He wants a hug. Peter must understand the motion because he reaches out to put a hand on Ned’s knee, squeezing gently.

“It’s just me, Ned,” he reminds him.

Ned signs something quickly, but it’s not the speed that confuses Peter. “I’ve never seen that sign before. You have what?”

Ned’s hand is shaking when he fingerspells the word.

Peter’s voice is calm, but his heart is racing when he asks, “How long?”

_2 months._

“Who else knows?”

_I told my parents, but they don’t believe me._

“Oh, Ned.” Peter tackles his best friend, throwing them both backwards onto the bed until they’re sprawled out, arms wrapped tightly around each other.

Ned wants to cry, but the tears won’t come. He feels numb, resigned, and it’s only Peter’s violent reaction that reminds him how fucked up the situation is.

“How could they not believe you?” Peter is close to tears himself.

“Dunno,” Ned mumbles into Peter’s hair. “They said they don’t believe in depression.”

“Don’t _believe_ in it?” Peter shrieks. “It’s a mental illness, not a fucking fairytale!”

“They think I just need to eat healthier and exercise more, and then I’ll feel better, but I’ve _tried,_ Peter, I’ve tried all of that and it’s not working, nothing is working…” he trails off and finally lets the tears flow.

Peter holds him tighter. “It’s gonna be okay, Ned. I hear you, I believe you.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick, especially with everything you’ve been going through.”

 “Ned—”

“No, Peter, I was a jerk and you didn’t deserve that. Neither did MJ. It’s just—my parents keep telling me that it’s all in my head and I’m making things up and I _know_ that’s not true, but sometimes I start to believe it. They’re always talking about how selfish addicts are and how sensitive people with anxiety are and how lazy depressed people are and—” he cuts himself off with a sob, “—and I know it’s not fair to project that onto you or MJ’s brother, or anyone else, but it’s what they want me to think and they’re threatening to stop paying for therapy because they think she’s putting lies in my head and—”

“I forgive you.” Peter’s voice is firm when he cuts him off this time.

Ned hastily wipes under his eyes. “Huh?”

“I accept your apology and I’m not mad at you for listening to your parents. I am, however, mad at them for putting bullshit ideas into your head and making you feel bad about yourself for something that’s outside of your control.”

“Do you really believe that? Do you really think that having depression isn’t my fault?” Ned’s eyes are still shining.

“100%. There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent it, but you can absolutely treat it and learn to live with it.”

“My parents won’t let me take any medication,” Ned admits. “Dad said antidepressants will just make me fatter.”

Peter hides his flinch at the implication that his meds made him fat. This isn’t about him, it’s about Ned.

“What if we talk to them together?” he suggests. “Your parents know me, they love me, they know I’ve been sick. I can tell them how much therapy and medication have helped me.”

Ned’s voice cracks when he asks, “You would do that?”

“I’d do anything for you, man, you know that.”

* * *

 

“Wilson, for the last time, I am not challenging the God of Thunder to an arm wrestling match.”

Bucky’s statement is as dry as ever and Steve smirks at the familiarity of it, nudging his knee under the table.  

 “Whatever J,” Sam waves a hand dismissively. “You’re just too afraid of what he’ll do to you when your metal arm knocks his mighty ass down a few pegs.”

Bucky scoffs. “More like I’m smart enough to protect this very expensive arm from its certain demise.”

Rising abruptly from his seat at the head of the dining table, Tony exclaims, “Excuse me? I’d like you to have more faith in my engineering than that, Robocop. Your arm can withstand way more than Thor’s biceps, mighty as they are.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Clint demands. “Someone ring up his majesty and make this happen!”

The dining room erupts into cheers of consensus as Natasha, Bruce, and even Steve get swept up by the promise of a challenge. Team dinner has been finished for nearly an hour, but the heroes are still sitting around enjoying each other’s company (or, rather, annoying the shit out of one another until someone finally caves and volunteers to do the dishes). The heckling of one super solider continues until a high voice cuts through the room.

“C’mon guys, he said no.”

Peter’s tone is slightly sharper than the teasing calls for, and the room’s sudden silence is focused in his direction.

He turns red under the team’s scrutiny and looks down at his empty plate with a frown.

“Thanks for sticking up for me, pal, but it’s alright,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, but confused, “they’re just screwing around.”

“I know, I know,” Peter mumbles. “Sorry.”

Something in his voice worries Tony. “Hey, you ok?” He manages to ask in a way that is neither patronizing nor dismissive.

Peter opens his mouth as if to explain himself but changes his mind with a slight shake of his head.

“I’m fine, I just… Can I be excused?”

Tony blinks but otherwise shows no signs that Peter’s behavior is worrying. “Sure thing, kiddo.”

He gives the team a tight smile and leaves the room without another word.

When the elevator doors close behind him, Clint asks the room at large, “Ok, that was weird, right?”

“When has he ever left the table without helping us clean up?” Steve answers with another question.

“He seemed fine during dinner…” Tony muses.

“I guess he was pretty quiet,” Bucky offers.

“Guys,” Natasha interrupts, addressing the team as if she’s talking to a group of school children. “He just ate the largest portion of food that he’s had since before he was sick. Do I need to connect the dots for you all?”

Steve looks almost offended at the implication that he missed something. “No, he didn’t. He always eats about as much as I do.”

“No, Cap,” Tony shakes his head, frustrated at himself for not noticing earlier, “he’s been eating the _exact_ same portions as you since he got home. We’ve been making sure,” he gestures to himself, Bruce, and Sam. “Tonight, he had another bowl after you’d already finished.”

“Oh,” the super soldier says plainly. “Well, he’s a growing boy, that makes sense.”

“Yes, a growing boy in the refeeding stage of recovery from a restrictive eating disorder,” Bruce cuts in bluntly, not allowing the discussion to skirt around Peter’s illness. “His body is trying to make up for lost time but that doesn’t mean it—or his mind—are ready for that.”

Tony starts towards the elevators. “Should we—"

“Nah, man, give him space,” Sam interrupts. “He’s already proven to us that he wants recovery, let him prove it to himself.”

“But what if he—” This time it’s Bucky voicing his concerns but, again, Sam stops him.

“How’s the kid going to learn to trust himself if we can’t trust him first?” He demands, then softens his expression with a weary sigh. “Look, as much as we all want to, we can’t grab his hand and drag him through recovery, he has to carry himself. He’s stronger than we give him credit for; he’ll be alright.”

* * *

 

Up in his room, Peter is not alright. He’s pacing with his hands tightly gripping his hair, thoughts racing. He was just trying to honor his body’s hunger cues by eating a slightly larger portion than Steve but, apparently, he way overdid it.

Dinner was a delicious spread of salad, pasta, and garlic bread (Tony’s specialties) and Peter thought he was giving his body what it needed by helping himself to a third bowl of spaghetti. He’s been working so hard to get his weight back up and he’s nearly there. The team has been monitoring his intake since he was discharged from Summit 3 weeks ago, but after the first few days, they hadn’t needed to step in at all. Peter genuinely wants his health back and now that he has the tools to succeed, he’s getting there.

Really, his recovery has been going about as smoothly as he could hope for.

So why, now, can he feel every mouthful of food sitting like rocks in his stomach?

Peter swallows passed another wave of nausea and groans. He can’t remember the last time he felt this full and he forgot how much he _hates_ it. He feels bloated and queasy and _heavy._ He can’t help the disgust that he feels over how much he ate. He wants to believe that it was ok, that his body needed the fuel, but he feels too sick to his stomach to convince himself of that. The days when he used to take immediate action against this feeling are not that far gone, and his body is not helping the disordered thoughts in his head.

_You’re disgusting, but you can make it all go away._

_It would be so easy._

_No one would know._

_You’ll feel so much better._

_Just never eat this much again and you’ll be fine._

“Fuck!” Peter swears when he realizes he’s about to give in. He stumbles into his bathroom, already beginning to mentally justify his actions and drops to his knees in front of the toilet. Leaning over the bowl he gags once, twice, and almost has his fingers down his throat when the reality of what he’s about to do sets in.

He freezes.

“No, no, no, no, no!” He skitters away from the toilet as if it shocked him, clambers to his feet, and stares at himself, wide-eyed, in the bathroom mirror.

He almost-

He was going to-

Peter scrambles back into the bedroom and resumes his frantic pacing.

“FRIDAY?” he gasps desperately. “Where is everyone?”

“Miss Romanof and Mr. Barton are in the gym. Mr. Wilson and Captain Rogers are on kitchen cleaning duty. Boss, Dr. Banner, and Sergeant Barnes are in Boss’ workshop. Do you need me to call for assistance, Mr. Parker?” FRIDAY asks.

“No, thanks,” he responds, trying to control his panicky breaths.  

His eating disorder is screaming at him to join Nat and Clint in the gym because he has to get rid of this food one way or another, but Peter digs down deep and does the opposite. He ignores the anxiety in his head telling him that his presence is unwelcome in the workshop and steps into the elevator.

When the doors open, Peter is slightly taken aback by the scene that greets him. There, in the middle of the room at a newly cleared off work table, Bucky and Tony are arm wrestling.

Tony’s left arm is the only part of his body wearing Iron Man armor and it’s clearly struggling against Bucky’s metal arm. Bruce is standing back, grinning, and filming the whole thing on his StarkPhone.

“I can’t believe you gave Bucky an arm that’s as strong as your suit.”

Peter distracts Tony for a split second which is long enough for Bucky to slam the genius’ arm down and dent the table.

“Ha!” Bucky exclaims in victory. “Pay up, Iron Man!”

“No way, that wasn’t a fair fight, the kid distracted me!” Tony argues. “Rematch?”

Bucky scoffs. “Losing once wasn’t enough for you?”

“Don’t make me get the rest of the suit.”

Bucky’s grin is devilish.

“How about we let Peter show off?” Bruce suggests, turning his attention to the teen. “I bet he could take The Arm down.”

Peter gulps, partly because of how sick he feels, and partly because he has a split second to decide if he’s going to pretend to be fine or actually reach out for help. He could fool Dr. Banner if he had to, but Mr. Stark knows him too well and Bucky can smell a lie from a mile away.

“Uh, actually,” Peter’s hands tighten around his stomach and he winces, “I’m not feeling too great.”

Tony powers down the Iron Man arm and is by the kid’s side in an instant, all traces of lightheartedness wiped from his expression.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? FRIDAY, scan for injuries.”

“Relax, super-dad,” Bucky drawls calmly in an effort to halt the man’s panic, “he’s clearly not injured.”

Bruce, as always, cuts to the chase. His voice is sympathetic when he asks, “It’s the nausea, isn’t it?”

Peter nods.

“Oh, bud,” Tony worries, “did my food make you sick?”

“No, no, it’s not your fault,” he quickly reassures his mentor. “I just, um, I ate a lot. At dinner. I ate too much—uh, more than I should have. I guess.”

“Do you think you ate too much or does your eating disorder think you ate too much?” Bucky challenges.

Peter sighs, then shrugs. “Both?”

Tony has composed himself since realizing his kid isn’t on death’s door and assumes his usual “Mr. Fix-It” persona.

“Ok, what are we thinking… distraction? Entertainment? I can get Sam down here if we want to talk this out. Or, is Jamie on call today? Your next session isn’t until Wednesday, do you want to movie it up?”

Peter shuts his eyes for a moment and tries to breathe through the tightness in his abdomen.

“I, um… I just need to focus on not puking for a while,” he pushes down the shame and embarrassment before continuing, “I didn’t think it was safe for me to be alone.”

“Well, you came to the right place, pal,” Bucky steps forward to put his arm around Peter’s shoulders and gently leads him to the biggest couch in the workshop. He sits and practically pulls the kid into his side, situating them both carefully as to not upset his stomach any further. Once they’re both comfortable, Bucky aims a question at the ceiling.

“FRIDAY, what’s next on my list of nature documentaries?”

“Planet Earth, Season 2 is next on the list,” she replies. “Would you like me to play episode 1?’

“Yes, please,” he calls upwards before confessing to Peter, “Nature documentaries are my go-to when I’m not feeling well. It’s easy to get lost in the landscapes but my brain doesn’t have to work very hard to keep up.”

Peter sighs, not quite contently, but in a way that he hopes conveys how grateful his that Bucky has taken control of the situation. He burrows closer to the super soldier and his non-stop supply of body heat and tries to relax.

Tony joins them on the couch a moment later and places a trash can on the ground with a sheepish smile. “Just in case, kid.”

On his way out of the workshop, Bruce calls, “I’m going to see if I can find something that will help settle your stomach, Pete.”

“Thank you,” Peter’s voice is strained, and Bucky tightens the grip on his shoulders.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” he asks.

Peter turns slightly so he can sign his answer.

_If I open my mouth for too long, I’ll probably throw up._

Bucky frowns in sympathy and signs back, _we can sign._

_Moving makes it worse._

He sighs and rubs Peter’s arm, turning back towards the screen.

They watch Planet Earth in silence for a while, Peter shifting uncomfortably every few minutes. At first, it seems like the steady presence of Bucky and Mr. Stark, along with the soothing voice of the narrator are helping him feel better. But then, without prompting, the nausea doubles in intensity and Peter can’t help the whimper of pain he lets out as his stomach turns violently.

“FRIDAY, what’s Bruce’s status?” Tony asks impatiently, Peter’s whimper of pain cutting through him like a knife.

“Dr. Banner is currently in the MedBay attempting to locate an anti-nausea medication that is compatible with Mr. Parker’s metabolism.”

Peter groans and turns his face into Bucky’s arm, breaths shallow.

“It’s okay if you’re going to be sick, Pete,” Tony reassures. “No one is going to be mad at you.”

“I can’t,” he whimpers. “I wish it would just happen already. I feel so awful.”

“I know, buddy, I know,” Bucky soothes. His metal arm crosses over his body and comes to rest softly on Peter’s abdomen. When the teen doesn’t flinch away, Bucky starts rubbing gentle circles over his tense muscles.

Peter mumbles something into Bucky’s sweater, too quiet for even the soldier to hear.

“What’d you say, Peter?” Tony asks.

When Peter turns his head so his face is once again visible, the two men are alarmed to see tears in his eyes.

He repeats himself in a shaky whisper, “I almost purged. When I left dinner.” His right hand moves up to tug on his hair, “And I still want to.”

Tony scoots down the couch so that his left thigh is pressed against Peter’s right. He squeezes the kid’s knee and says, “I know how hard that is for you to admit and I’m really proud of you.”

Peter would laugh bitterly if he didn’t feel so ill. “I had my fingers down my throat, that’s nothing to be proud of.”

“Right, and instead of following through on that instinct you came here and asked for help,” Tony reminds him. “Don’t let the disorder minimize the significance of that.”

“I should be better than this by now—”

“Stop,” Bucky interrupts him, not unkindly. “You know there’s no use in entertaining those thoughts. Recovery isn’t linear, and some days will be harder than others; you know that. You did exactly the right thing by coming down here and being honest. We’re going to help you get through this kiddo, I promised, and I meant it.”

The breath Peter lets out is more unsteady than before and he’s humiliated by the tears that start to roll down his cheeks. Mercifully, the men don’t say anything, they simply continue their comforting touches; Tony’s grounding hand on his knee and Bucky’s metal hand gently rubbing his stomach and turn their attention back to the screen.

A few more minutes of calculated breathing pass before Bruce reenters the workshop with a pill bottle in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“I found something that should help reduce your nausea,” he says as he makes his way over to the couch. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any intravenous medication that can keep up with your metabolism, so you’ll have to take it orally. Do you think you’ll be able to keep it down with a sip of water?”

“Um, I’m not sure,” Peter admits, voice cracking.

“Do you want to try?”

He nods slowly. He’ll try anything to make the pain go away.

Bruce hands him a tiny pill from the bottle that Peter manages to pop into his mouth with trembling hands. Bucky doesn’t wait for him to ask for help, he just takes the glass from Bruce’s outstretched hand (Peter instantly misses the feeling of the cool metal on his painful abdomen) and raises it to the kid’s lips. Peter takes a tiny sip, just enough to swallow, before sitting back with a groan and reaching out for the super soldier’s arm. He sighs in relief when Bucky resumes the soothing touch.

“Now, you should feel that almost instantly,” Bruce tells him, setting the glass and the medication on the worktop behind him. “And, if you need to, you can take another one in 2 hours.”

“Thanks, doc,” Peter mumbles, face twisted in discomfort as he waits for the medication to kick in.

The four Avengers settle into silence for a few moments, enjoying the tranquility of the island scenes on the screen. But it isn’t long before Bucky feels Peter’s stomach clench under his hand and the teen whines through gritted teeth.

“Pete?” Tony squeezes his knee again.

He’s passed the point of being able to answer his mentor. Saliva is pooling in his mouth and his stomach is cramping so painfully that he can’t help the noises of discomfort he’s letting out. Peter knows that throwing up will bring him some relief, but it’s like his body is stuck here, just on the edge of being sick. He knows what to do to get the ball rolling but he can’t—he _can’t_.

He lets out a sob as he leans forward to grab the trashcan at his feet.

Tony and Bucky help him settle it into his lap and they each put both of their hands on him, steadying, so Peter is free to grip the plastic like his life depends on it. He’s barely able to register Tony rubbing his back and Bucky rubbing his stomach through the pain and cloudiness of the nausea.

Tony is murmuring softly, “it’s ok, Pete, let it out, you’re ok,” while Bucky soothes, “I got you, buddy.”

Peter hovers over the trashcan, breathing harshly, his whole body shaking. He spits a few times but when nothing else happens, he can’t help but start to cry in earnest.

“It hurts so much,” he chokes out. “I’ve never felt this sick for this long, I need it to stop.”

“Shhh, just keep breathing through it, Peter,” Bruce tries to reassure him from his spot on the other couch. “Getting worked up is only going to make it worse.”

“I can’t, I can’t” he sobs.

Bruce’s words hold true as the sobs give way to violent retching that produces nothing but more saliva.

“Jesus, Banner, what did you give him?” Bucky demands, trying and failing to not let his anger at the situation be directed towards the doctor.

“Phenergan,” he replies tersely. “I know it’s not as strong as Zofran but that gives him migraines; it was the only other option.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not working,” Bucky bites back.

Peter is completely unaware of this conversation, too busy trying to convince his body to let go of his dinner. He wants nothing more than to force it to come back up and he wishes he had just done so earlier when he had the chance. When his stomach contracts again, he reaches up on instinct to assist his body by stimulating his gag reflex but catches himself at the last second and fists his fingers in his hair instead.

 “God, I want to claw at the back of my throat until it burns—too much, there’s too much…need to get rid of it, I can’t—" his breaths are coming out in frantic gasps and every other is followed by a forceful gag, interrupting his hysterical words. “Please, please, make it stop. I need…I need to purge—just this once, just one time and I’ll never do it again. Please I can’t—I can’t take it anymore.”

Tony’s heart is breaking, hearing the pain in his kid’s voice. He almost wants to agree and just let him do what he needs to do to make himself feel better, but since he knows what a relapse would mean for him at this point in his recovery, he makes a last attempt at calming him down.

He grips the kid’s jaw roughly, something he’d never do if he wasn’t panicking, and forces his head to turn towards him. It speaks to how horrible Peter feels that he doesn’t resist the manhandling.

“Peter, look at me,” Tony demands, voice nearly a growl in his desperation.

The kid is still sobbing harshly, face wet with tears, snot, and saliva. His eyes are glassy and unfocused and for a second Tony worries that he’s going to have to slap him.

But then big brown eyes lock onto Tony’s, and the sobs quiet down to pitiful whimpers.

“Breathe.”

He doesn’t let Peter shake his head, but he can feel that the teen wants to.

“Yes, you can. Forget everything else. Look at me and just breathe.”

He tries, but Peter’s attempt at a deep breath still comes out as a gasp.

Tony praises him anyway. “Good job, kiddo. Again.”

They continue this way for what feels like hours, Peter trying to turn his sobs into steady breaths and Tony encouraging him through it. Bucky is a steady presence at Peter’s back and the teen leans into him as his muscles begin to relax one by one.

“You’re doing great, Pete, we’re so proud of you,” Tony says and slowly releases his grip on the kid’s jaw as he’s able to take in more air on his own.

Peter lets the words sink in. Proud.

He’s fighting. The pain and the fatigue are proof of that. He didn’t give in to the disordered thoughts and he turned away from his self-destructive instincts and sought out help. He did that all on his own. And now he’s not alone.

Bucky can feel the relief in Peter’s body at Tony’s words and he picks up where the billionaire left off.

“You work so hard to get better every day, pal, and you’re doing it. You’re here and you’re fighting, and I know how hard it is. I know how much you want to just give in sometimes and how much strength it takes to do the opposite.”

“It doesn’t matter how close you come to giving up,” Bruce adds. “All that matters is that you don’t. And despite everything, tonight, you didn’t give up.”

“We’ve got you now, Pete. You’re okay,” says Tony.

Peter lets out a long, shuddering breath before he slowly lowers the trashcan to the ground. Bruce hands him a towel to wipe off his face and he does so with hands that are still trembling.

 _I’m okay,_ Peter repeats to himself.

He didn’t purge, he didn’t puke, he didn’t relapse. He’s long passed the point of being embarrassed in front of the other Avengers. They’ve already seen him at rock bottom, and he knows they really mean it when they say that they’re here for him; even if that means holding him while he cries over a trashcan.

Peter reaches an arm out and places it on Tony’s chest. He spends several minutes trying to match his breathing with his mentor’s and when he finally succeeds, he closes his eyes and collapses back against the arm that Bucky has yet to remove from around his shoulders.

“Still feel like puking?” Tony asks, a little playfully now that Peter has stopped panicking.

“Kinda.”

Bucky squeezes his shoulder and says, “You know, your therapist is going to have my head if we don’t at least try to talk about this.”

The kid coughs out a laugh, “Yeah, I know.” Then he groans and rubs his hands down his face. “I don’t know where to start.”

“This is the closest you’ve come to relapsing since you left for treatment, isn’t it?” Bruce prompts.

Peter nods. “Things have been going really well, I don’t know why I lost it like that.”

“Can you tell me what was going through your head when you left dinner?” Tony asks.

“I just felt…heavy I guess. Bloated. Too full.” Peter makes a face. “I felt disgusting.”

“And you think it’s because you ate too much?”

“Well, _I_ don’t think I ate too much, my ED thinks I ate too much.”

Bucky nods in understanding. “So your brain freaked out, which caused your body to freak out, right?”

“Pretty much.”

Tony hmms thoughtfully. “Looks like we’re going to have to work on that feeling of fullness, huh?”

Peter sighs. “I guess so.” He’s quiet for a moment before continuing, “I know it’s normal to overeat sometimes. And I know it’s not that uncommon to be nauseous after eating a lot at once. I just haven’t—I mean, my disorder hasn’t let me feel that way in such a long time. If I was ever that bloated, I’d just purge, and then the feeling would go away. But obviously, that’s not healthy and I don’t want to go back to doing that, so I have to find other ways to deal with being full,” he lets out a frustrated groan. “It’s just so hard to know when I’ve actually overdone it, or when the ED is telling me I’ve overdone it, you know?”

“I get it,” Bucky empathizes, “It’s hard to know what’s you and what’s your illness sometimes; especially in the beginning.”

The room is quiet for a moment before Bruce asks: “How’s school been?”

The question throws Peter for a moment.

“Uh, it’s been good. Classes are fine, everyone has been nice.” He shrugs. “Nothing special.”

“So, other than your recovery goals, there isn’t anything stressful going on right now?”

Peter shrugs again. “Not that I can think—oh, shit. Ned.”

“Your best friend?” Bucky frowns, confused.

“Yeah, um,” Peter pauses, uncomfortable with sharing his friend’s secrets. “he has depression, too—he just found out recently—and his parents have been really hard on him for it; basically, they think he’s making it all up. So, I’ve been trying to help him out, trying to convince his parents that they need to take his illness seriously. It’s, uh, it’s not going so well.”

“And how have you been handling all of this?” Bruce asks, voice devoid of judgement.

Peter frowns. “Not very well, apparently.” He rolls his eyes at himself and makes a frustrated noise. “I hate when this happens, when things sneak up on me like this. It’s like I don’t even realize something is bothering me until suddenly I want to rip my throat out.”

“That’ll change with time, Pete,” Bucky reassures him, “I know we keep giving you that line “just give it time”, but it’s true. I used to be the same way: I’d be totally fine until I needed to hide under the bed and only speak Russian for 3 days. The more I worked on my recovery, the easier it was for me to recognize minor triggers that would eventually lead to major breakdowns and how to manage those triggers.”

Tony nudges Peter’s knee with his own. “I think it’s great that you want to help your friend, I know how much he means to you, kiddo. But I need you to keep putting your own mental health and your own recovery first. You can’t help Ned if you’re not helping yourself. FRIDAY, what’s that saying?”

“You can’t pour from an empty bucket,” the AI supplies.

“Right. Don’t let your bucket get empty, Pete. You’ve only just learned that it’s okay to fill it.”

Peter shakes his head. “But I have all of you guys and my treatment team and my friends, Ned just has me, MJ, and his therapist, until his parents stop paying for therapy,” he protests. “Ned needs me.”

“Ned needs you to be happy and healthy,” Bruce points out, “If you burn yourself out trying to help him, you’ll be hurting the both of you.”

“I’m not even doing that much for him, it shouldn’t bother me so much,” Peter mutters.

“’Shouldn’t bother me’ is a phrase that your therapist would yell at you for,” Bucky points out.

Tony grins. “You only know that because your therapist yells at you for saying it.”

“Right, because it’s not helpful,” Bucky continues. “The fact is that trying to convince Ned’s parents to take his depression seriously is bothering you. Please bring that up with Jamie during your next session, she’s way more qualified for this than we are.”

“In the meantime,” Tony starts, “why don’t you invite Ned over tomorrow and we can all chat about what’s been going on and see if we can get him the help that he needs.”

Peter throws himself at Mr. Stark and wraps the man in a tight hug. “You would do that?”

“I’d do anything for you, kiddo, you know that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who loves Peter more: Tony or Ned? Correct, the answer is both, with Bucky in a close 2nd place. 
> 
> I've had the last scene of this chapter written for so so long, but as I wrote the beginning, I had to keep going in and changing things around. I hope the flow of the plot is clear!  
> There was no way I was going to write about Peter's time in treatment in any more detail without triggering the fuck out of myself so this is the best I can do.  
> The rest of the Avengers will make more of an appearance as this story continues; it's so hard to develop dynamic characters while keeping the focus on Peter's recovery journey. Writing is hard, y'all.
> 
> Also lowkey highkey not kidding when I say that I write for validation and every comment boosts my self-esteem by 75 points so please, even if it's just a thumbs-up emoji, let me know what you think. I reply to every single comment and every time that I see there's a new one I smile like a big ol' nerd at my computer screen.  
> Thank you for supporting this story, I'm really proud of what I've been able to share with you all so far.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for detailed descriptions of self-harming thoughts.

“Hey, Mr. Stark?”

“What’s up, kid?”

“Can you come take a look at this?”

Tony glances across the lab to see Peter holding up his webshooters and frowns. He didn’t explicitly ban Peter from working on his Spider Man gear, but he thought it was implied when he was ordered to take a break from webslinging.

But, never one to deny Peter anything he asks for, he rises from his own work station—knees cracking loud enough to remind him how long he’d been sitting there—and comes to stand behind the kid, peering down at the sticky mess of metal in his hands.

“What’s the problem?” Tony asks, amusement coloring his tone. “Other than the web fluid coming out of every seam…Jesus. What’d you use to put this together, Elmer’s glue?”

Peter gives him a flat look. “I thought I adjusted the diameter of the barrel in proportion to the increase in thickening agents in the fluid…” he trails off, pouting at the disaster in front of him, “but I guess not.”

“I guess not,” Tony agrees, squinting at the page of notes on the worktop. For some godforsaken reason, the kid insists on writing down his calculations the old-fashioned way and politely declines Tony’s offers to use any of the endless amounts of tools he has that could make his life easier.

“Wait, that’s the old formula,” Peter interrupts when he sees what Mr. Stark is focusing on. “Here’s everything adjusted for the stronger fluid.”

It only takes a moment for Tony to find the error. “You adjusted everything proportionately except for the increased viscosity of the web fluid, you only accounted for the volume; run that calculation and that’ll change the minimum diameter.”

Peter feels like the world’s biggest idiot for forgetting such a vital piece of information. “Oh, shit. Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

Tony sees the frustration on his face and playfully shoves him before wandering back over to his own disaster.

“Hey, you didn’t blow anything up today, so let’s call it a win, huh?”

Peter smiles despite himself. “Didn’t blow anything up, _yet,_ ” he teases, “The day is still young.”

Tony sees his chance and takes it. “You know, if you wanted to blow something up, I could use some help with these repulsor repairs. It’ll be a while before I can get them all online again and with the way things have been going I might be forced to fly out with only the left boot functioning.”

The teen makes a face, pencil in his mouth and piles of papers already in his hands.

“I can help, yeah, but I’ve gotta finish this first.”

“Do you?” He raises an eyebrow.

Peter frowns. “Um, yes?”

“Are new webshooters really a priority right now?”

“They will be, soon. I need to be ready.”

“Ready for what, exactly?”

“I need to get back out there, Mr. Stark,” Peter says carefully, not wanting to start a fight.

Once again, Tony finds himself clamping down anger, trying to respond in the opposite way his own father would have. “I’m not sure you’re ready for that, Pete.”

“And who gets to decide that? Because it’s obviously not me.”

“You can’t rush back out there,” he reasons calmly. “I just don’t want to see you rushing into something that is going to hurt your recovery.”

“Not everything is about my fucking recovery!” Peter snaps. “I’ve been working my ass off and I’m doing _fine_ , okay? God, I’m so sick of being treated like a piece of glass; the world doesn’t stop spinning just because of my mental health, Tony. People are _dying_ out there while I’m sitting around being lazy and getting fat!”

Peter drops his head into his hands and curses under his breath. “I didn’t mean that,” he says slowly after a moment, getting his breathing back under control. “Putting myself down like that is just a habit; I don’t actually think I’m fat or lazy.”

“I know,” Tony says quietly, easily.

“But I did mean the rest of it. I’m doing well, but I feel like no one else is acknowledging it. I don’t know what else to do to convince everyone that I’m not going to break every time something goes wrong.”

Tony crosses the workshop again, resting a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder. He’s gotten more comfortable with giving out casual affection since he discovered how much the kid craves it.

“I hear you, Peter, and I’m sorry we haven’t been giving you enough credit. I know how hard you’re working, and I see how far you come.” He lets those words sink in a bit before continuing, “But I need you to understand that you’re not being benched as a punishment. We all know how important it is for you to get back out there as soon as possible, and you will. You have to be patient with yourself; a few weeks of rest isn’t enough after what your body has gone through.”

“It’s been over 3 months,” Peter grumbles.

“3 months of recovering from how many months of illness?”

He flinches at that because, okay, point.

“I know you’re doing well right now, and I just want to make sure you have the tools to keep doing well before you get back out there, okay?” There are a few more moments of silence. Tony clears his throat. “You know, finding you all alone on the roof had to be one of the scariest moments of my life.”

Peter flinches again.

“I’m not saying that to make you feel guilty,” Tony reassures him, “I just think you need a reminder of how bad things were before you felt like you could ask for help. I’m trying to say that I don’t want to let that happen again, pal.”

The teen nods slowly. “I know.”

“So,” Tony blows out a long breath, “since you’re still in the process of getting yourself back in shape, _slowly_ and under the guidance of your treatment team, I think we can both agree it’s going to be a while before Spider Man can make his return, yeah? Can I trust that you’re not going to try to sneak out of here before you’re cleared?”

“As long as you can promise that I can go back out as soon as I’m ready.”

“You have my word, kiddo.”

Tony pats him on the back and gestures for Peter to follow him across the room.

“C’mon, leave the mess for the bots to take care of. FRIDAY can run those calculations for you while we work on some cool stuff.”

Peter pouts. “My webshooters are cool.”

“U’huh. Whatever you say, Elmer’s glue.”

* * *

 

Peter can’t breathe.

He knew that his physics project wasn’t perfect, he wasn’t proud of the work that he contributed to his group.

But he did not expect their overall grade to be a 72.

This midterm project counts for 20% of their semester grade.

Peter single-handedly dragged down the grades of four of his classmates because of his inability to balance school and his mental health.

A restlessness bursts to the surface of his skin and Peter’s face goes white. He’s not sure if he’s strong enough to fight this.

He knows the feeling well. It crawls under his skin, down his spine, encases his frantically beating heart. The urge to slice his skin open is stronger than it’s been in months and Peter feels like he’s suffocating under the weight of it.

He scrambles to his feet and starts pacing the room, trying to think through the screaming in his brain. He has methods to cope with this; he knows how to get through this; just _think,_ dammit.

“FRIDAY, who’s awake right now?”

There’s a pause before FRIDAY responds, almost regretfully, “All other residents of the tower are currently asleep.”

Peter gasps out something that might be a sob.

“Please, Peter, allow me to remind you that you may request assistance at any time of night,” FRIDAY continues, voice urgent.

“No,” Peter barks sharply, “Do not wake anyone up.”

He knows exactly how precious sleep is for everyone on the team and Peter is not going to disturb that because of some outrageous urge that he shouldn’t have to think twice about ignoring.

When Peter realizes he’s clenching his fists so tightly that his fingernails are drawing blood from his palms, he curses.

_Dammit, Parker. Think!_

He can’t exercise, that’s not any healthier than cutting. He can’t punch the wall, or slam his head against it, or do anything that would bring physical or mental harm to himself. FRIDAY will tattle on him before he can even try.

Peter tries to focus on his breath and lead himself through a breathing exercise that Jamie taught him, but he’s already gasping too frantically for that to have any effect. He tries snapping a rubber band around his wrist, but he hardly feels it. He’s digging around his desk drawer to find his stress ball when his fingers land on his pencil sharpener.

He snaps the blades out of the plastic before his brain can even register the action.

Peter stares at the sharp metal in his palm, unblinking, chest heaving.

 _You deserve the pain._ The voice in his head tells him. _You deserve to hurt. You deserve to suffer._

And Peter tries to counter those thoughts, tries to come up with reasons why that isn’t true, but he can’t think straight, and the blades are right there.

Right. There.

Peter bolts for the stairs, jumps down three flights, and slides to a stop in front of Sam’s bedroom door. He wasn’t expecting it to be open.

Being a light sleeper comes with the job, so Peter isn’t surprised when Sam stirs just from his presence in his doorway. The man props himself up on an elbow, rubs his eyes, and squints at the door.

“Peter?”

When the teen remains motionless aside from the heaving in his chest, Sam wakes up fully, alert and prepared for a threat.

“What’s wrong, kid?”

FRIDAY takes that as her cue to turn the lights on, but Peter is still frozen to the spot like a deer in headlights.

Sam takes a few slow steps toward him, and when he doesn’t flinch away, admits, “You’re freaking me out here, Pete. Talk to me.”

“I—” he starts, but the words get caught in his throat.

He drops his wide-eyed stare from Sam’s eyes to his own hand and slowly opens his fingers until the blades are shining under the lights. He looks up in time to see the man’s eyes widen in understanding.

“Did you come here to give those to me?” he asks gently.

Peter nods.

Sam takes a few more steps forward and reaches his hand toward the blades but the teen makes no attempt to actually give them up, and Sam tries to hide his apprehension.

“C’mon, kid, you came all this way, you can do this.”

Peter makes a noise in the back of his throat; he really doesn’t want to cut, but the voices in his head are screaming and it’s so loud and he just wants to make it stop. These blades will make it stop.

“Eyes up, Peter,” Sam’s voice is sharper now, and Peter realizes he was staring at the metal in his palm. “You don’t want to use those, you’re just feeling out of control right now. I’ll take them for you and we’ll figure this out together, okay? Whatever’s going on right now, you can handle it without hurting yourself.”

After a tense pause, he turns his trembling hand and drops the blades into Sam’s palm, who sags in relief and immediately turns for the bathroom to dispose of them. He steps back into the room a second later and assess the teen who has yet to move from the doorway.

“One word to describe what you’re feeling right now.”

Peter looks at him like he has three heads.

“Just one word, kid, that’s all I need.”

He tries to think through the screaming in his head but all he manages to come up with is: “Angry.”

“At yourself?”

He nods.

Sam crosses the room, grabs a pillow from his bed, and holds it out to Peter. “Here.”

The teen looks on in confusion, again.

“What your therapist never told you to beat up a pillow?” the man asks incredulously. “Take it, punch the life out of it, rip it to pieces, I don’t care. Hurt this, not yourself.”

Peter hesitates for only a moment before beginning his assault on Sam’s pillow. He slams the thing against the wall and brings his arm back to repeat the motion again, and again, and again. He starts grunting with the effort until his exhales are more shouts of frustration than anything else. At some point, he ends up on his knees and starts punching the pillow so hard that he hits the floor beneath it. He loses his form, in too much emotional distress to care about punching properly, and starts slapping the pillow, movements slowing as the fight drains out of him. In one last burst of frustration, he picks up the pillow, presses it against his face, and screams.

Sam remains calm through Peter’s meltdown, standing by in case he needs to step in, but he’d be lying if he said his heart wasn’t aching for the kid. The anguished screams tear through him, digging into his bones and laying bare all that he fears: that’s he’s helpless in someone else’s war with their brain; that all he can do is stand and watch while his friends fall apart.

But he’s been here before, he’s seen this before. He knows what he’s doing.

Sam drops to his knees a second before Peter drops the pillow, and catches the teen when he tips forward, spent. He’s breathing heavily and his whole body is shaking, but he’s not crying.

The man just holds him silently for a few minutes, holding him together until Peter can do it on his own.

After a few minutes, during which Sam only has to remind the kid to breathe a handful of times, he asks, “Better?”

Peter nods. “Much.” He lets out a long breath. “Thank you.”

The two readjust until they’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor, neither making a move to get up just yet.

“You’re strong as hell, Pete,” Sam says simply.

The teen raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t even break the pillow, dude.”

Sam shoves him. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, this is serious.”

Peter just shrugs.

“Oh, c’mon, do you think you could’ve done something like that a few months ago?”

Another shrug. He blushes.

“Seriously, Peter,” Sam waits until the teen meets his eyes, “that was an incredibly brave thing that you did, and I’m so proud of you for coming to me.”

He has to clear his throat before he responds. “I hate feeling so out of control like that; it’s like I’m not even in my body. I don’t know if I even chose to come down here, it just happened.”

“Well, I’m glad it did.” Sam pauses for a moment before asking, “Do I need to have someone check your room?”

Peter shakes his head. “Pencil sharpener,” he explains, “it was the only one I had.”

“Man, you live in Stark Tower and you’re still using pencils that need to be sharpened? You’re worse than Steve with that old-fashioned shit.”

“Since when are pencils old-fashioned?”

“Since you need blades to sharpen them.” Sam gives him a pointed look and Peter tries to not get angry about it.

“Look, I meant it when I said it wasn’t intentional,” he insists. “I don’t want to hurt myself.”

Sam considers him, thoughtfully. “You know, we don’t keep alcohol in the Tower.”

Peter takes a moment to process the change in topic. “Like, at all?”

He knows that there’s none stored on the common floor, and of course Mr. Stark doesn’t keep any on his floor or in the labs and workshops, but Peter figured the rest of the team had their own stashes.

“Not a drop,” Sam confirms.

“Why?” Peter asks plainly, but hurries to expand on his question when Sam gives him a look, “I mean, you could keep it in your own kitchens, couldn’t you? And even if it was on the common floor, Mr. Stark has been sober for years.”

Sam nods. “Right, but he’s also Iron Man. The stress of this job sometimes makes it hard for him to stay sober. After a rough mission, Stark confessed that it’d be easier to resist the temptation if there wasn’t so much alcohol in the Tower, so we threw it all out that same night.”

Peter takes a minute to absorb that information. He knows the other Avengers like to drink, though they usually don’t do so around him or Mr. Stark, but it’s not uncommon for them to settle around the TV, beers in hand, some sipping on drinks that smell like gasoline. He guesses they just order or pick up alcohol when they want it.

And that’s…a big commitment to Mr. Stark’s sobriety and an even bigger commitment to the team’s relationship with each other.

It makes sense to Peter that they would do something like that for Mr. Stark; no matter what anyone else says, he’s the heart of the team. But Peter? He still feels like a stowaway most days.

“What, are you suggesting we get rid of all the knives? Start cutting our food with plastic spoons?”

Sam shoves him again. The kid has been spending way too much time with Stark; the sass is exhausting. “Obviously not. I’m just tryin’ to remind you that we all have our demons and there’s nothing wrong with needing support to fight them. In case you haven’t noticed, this place is full of fighters.”

Peter smiles despite himself. “Yeah, I noticed.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Can you check my room? I don’t think there’s anything in there that will tempt me, but that sharpener took me by surprise and I don’t want to go through that again. At least, not anytime soon. Not while school is stressing me out.”

“Of course, man. You want me to check now?” Digging through the kid’s sock drawer looking for things he can hurt himself with at 1am wasn’t on his agenda for tonight, but if Sam has learned anything from his years of being an Avenger it’s how to be flexible.

“Nah, I’m too on edge to sleep anyway,” Peter admits, wringing his hands to hide their shaking. The urge to self-harm always leaves him keyed-up and twitchy.

Sam grins at him mischievously while climbing to his feet. “You wanna go shoot some stuff?” he asks, reaching out a hand to help Peter up.

“Uh, not sure if my therapist would approve of that as a coping strategy.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Do I look like your therapist?” When Peter doesn’t answer he continues, “You live with the Avengers, man. Shooting things to cope is our brand.”

Peter takes the hand but frowns, doubtful. “I’m not cleared for training yet.” Though that day is likely not far away.

“The only thing I’m gonna train you in is how much of a better shot I am than you.”

Sam is pleased when the dig earns him a smile.

“We’re going to get in trouble for this.”

“Not if we don’t get caught.”

* * *

 

“You ready to tell me what all this was about, yet?”

Peter empties another clip into the target before responding, “I probably shouldn’t have a weapon in my hand when I try.”

“A’ight,” Sam considers him from where he’s standing in his own shooting lane, lowering his rifle. “Tell you what, if you can hit the red or better 10 times, I’ll let you off the hook. If you miss, you gotta confess. Deal?”

“Deal.” Peter grins. He loves a good challenge.

He fires ten shots in quick succession, confident in his aim with the basic 9mm pistol, and lowers the gun with a triumphant smile already in place.

Only 8 of his shots hit the target.

“Fuck, I’m more out of practice than I thought.”

Sam just laughs and pats him on the back consolingly. He gestures to Peter to grab his stuff and heads over to the storage containers to clean and put away their gear. They sit on one of the benches and start taking apart the weapons in silence.

He lets this continue for a moment before he tosses a rag at Peter, grinning when he snatches it out of the air without looking. “Ok, spill.”

“It’s kinda embarrassing to talk about now that I don’t want to slice my skin open.”

Sam is familiar with that one. Talking about a breakdown on the other side of it is one of his least favorite activities but doing so is the best way to delay another one. (Delay and not prevent; in this line of work there’s no preventing breakdowns).

“I’m not gonna judge you, kid.”

Peter sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He cleans his gun silently for a few seconds while he gathers his thoughts, trying to recall the moment he started to feel out of control without putting himself back in that headspace.

“So, I got a bad grade on my physics project,” he starts.

“The one that you insisted you didn’t need help with last week? The one that you had to stay up until 3am to finish?”

He ducks his head in shame. “Yeah. That one.”

Sam nudges him. “Maybe next time when two super-geniuses offer to help with your homework, you’ll say yes, huh?”

Peter shrugs. “It’s not their work. I should be able to do it on my own.”

“Your teachers aren’t taking your mental health into account when they’re assigning projects, kid. Your brain is working double time trying to keep up with school and recovery; it’s only natural that you’ll need some help with that.”

Peter grimaces, still unwilling to accept that he deserves extra help just because he has anxiety, depression, and is recovering from an eating disorder. Lots of people are dealing with the same things and are functioning far better than he is.

“Whatever, I guess I know that now, but I still got a 72 on a project worth 20% of my grade.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “But that’s not all that’s bothering you.”

“It was a group project,” Peter confesses.

“Ahh, so you’re upset that you cost some other kids an A.”

He nods.

“And how can you be sure that everyone else did A-quality work?” Sam challenges.

“I can’t, but I don’t care about that. I know I didn’t do A-quality work and that’s unacceptable.”

“Why do you hold yourself to a higher standard than everyone else?”

Sam realizes that he struck a chord because Peter bites his lip and is suddenly very interested in storing his gun safely.

The teen almost regrets going to Sam. He's too good at reading between the lines; always picking up on things that Peter himself struggles to understand. But the man isn't wrong, Peter does expect more of himself than anyone else. He's not ashamed of who he is, not anymore, but trying to live up to the image of an ideal male superhero has been weighing heavily on him since he got his powers. 

“Right," Sam drawls, "aside from being unfairly mean to yourself, there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

Peter finishes putting away his gear but still won’t look up at Sam, studying his hands instead.

“If you don’t want to tell me, I might have to insist you tell someone else,” Sam starts carefully, “You were in pretty rough shape an hour ago.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, I—I want to tell you. It’s just…hard,” he finishes lamely. Hard is an understatement.

Sam settles onto the bench, leaning against the wall behind him. “Take your time, kid. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

The teen picks at his nails nervously, swallowing through the fear, and reminds himself that it’s just Sam. His voice is hesitant when he finally admits, “Um, I—I’m bi, Sam.”

He flicks his eyes up quickly, trying to gauge the man’s response without being too obvious about it, and is unsurprised but no less relieved to see an easy smile on his face.

“Thank you for telling me.” He reaches out to squeeze Peter’s shoulder.

The casual affection loosens something in Peter and he manages to whisper, “You’re the first person I’ve told.”

Sam uses his grip on Peter’s shoulder to pull him into a tight hug, preferring to let his actions speak louder than words in this moment. He’s not sure why, but all of the queer people in his life have come out to him in similar ways; many of them coming out for the first time ever. The honor of being trustworthy enough for moments like this never gets old.

Feeling brave after the previous admission, Peter continues, “I have a crush on someone in my project group and when I saw how badly I let them down, I lost it. I can’t have him hate me, Sam, I can’t. He’s too important, and I—”

“Hey, now,” Sam shushes him, pulling back from the hug so he can look Peter in the eye, “he’s not going to hate you because you guys didn’t get an A. I know it feels like it, but this one grade isn’t going to define your whole life, or even your whole high school career. If this guy is good enough to attract the feelings of someone as cool as you, he’ll understand that you’re struggling.”

Peter focuses on his breath for a moment, processing how much he just confessed to Sam and trying to digest what he’s been told.

“Do you really think he can forgive me?”

“Pete, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to forgive. Your project wasn’t perfect, but that doesn’t mean you’re a failure.”

His mouth twists down; he doesn’t believe Sam, but he wants to.

“I’m seeing him tomorrow, and I’m scared.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday…are you telling me you have a date?”

Sam gives him a shit-eating grin and Peter buries his face in his hands, groaning.

“Ugh, no, stop. I hang out with Ned every Saturday.”

“Ned?!”

Peter clamps a hand over his big mouth. Shit.

Before Sam can start drilling him, the tense quiet is interrupted by a loud set of footsteps heading down the hall. Peter recognizes the gait and groans again, not ready to face another Avenger with how messy his head feels.

“Hey, Cap,” Sam calls as the man bursts through the door.

His hair is sticking up in all directions and his fists are clenched. Though his expression gives little away, he knows it’s impossible to hide that he was running from a nightmare.

“Came down to destroy some punching bags?” Peter asks, hoping to shift the conversation away from him.

Something in the kid’s voice brings Steve to a halt. “Maybe.”

Sam nudges Peter and whispers, “Our brand.”

The teen just rolls his eyes.

“What are you guys doing up?” Steve asks, noticing how close the two are sitting and the tense lines on Peter’s face.

“Can I tell him?” Sam asks quietly.

Peter ducks his head and shrugs. “Sure.”

“Peter is gay for his best friend, and since this is your area of expertise, I’m gonna assume you got it from here, right?”

Steve blinks for a minute, but rapidly finds his composure. “Yeah, of course. You can go to bed.”

“Nah, I’ve gotta go dig through someone’s underwear drawer first,” Sam smirks, ruffling Peter’s hair before pushing himself to his feet. “Holler if you need me.”

Peter catches his arm and squeezes it gently. “Thanks, Sam.”

The man’s answering smile warms Peter all the way down to his toes. “Anytime, kid.”

Steve watches Sam leave and sits heavily across from Peter, trying to shake off the lingering unease that followed him out of the bedroom. He’s not here for himself right now. His team needs him.

“Room check?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do we need to talk about that?”

“Nope,” Peter pops the ‘p’, “Sam and I got it covered.”

He believes him, easily.

“So, I guess we’re here to talk about Ned, huh?”

Peter blushes and studies his hands. “I mean, there’s not much to talk about.”

“New feelings?”

“Kinda,” Peter shrugs. “He’s always been one of the most important people in my life, but…I don’t know. Things feel different, now.”

“Well, that makes sense. You’ve changed a lot in the past few months, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s true. I didn’t really realize how depressed I was until things started to get better. And now…I don’t know, it’s like waking up for the first time.” Peter stops himself with a snort. “I guess I don’t need to describe that to you.”

Cap laughs with him. “Yeah, I think I can relate. But my Big Gay Awakening happened way before I crashed that plane.”

“You and Bucky were together before the war, right?”

He nods. “We’ve been together as long as I can remember, honestly. We never had to confess our feelings to each other, we just sort of…fell into each other. But, then, things were way more casual in the 40s than they are now. I think I’m more in love with Bucky now than I ever was before.”

“Probably because your heart is 3 times larger now.”

That startles a laugh out of Steve. “Good point.” He pats Peter’s leg. “So, any chance Ned will reciprocate these feelings?”

Peter makes a face. “I dunno…I mean, he _is_ gay, but just because he’s attracted to boys doesn’t mean he’s attracted to me.”

“He’d be a fool not to be.”

Peter just rolls his eyes, smiling reluctantly. “Thanks, Cap.”

“What’s stopping you from telling him how you feel?”

He shrugs again. “I’m not worried about this ruining our friendship. Like, we’ve been best friends for 6 years, if he doesn’t like me back that’s not gonna change. But…but I don’t know if I can handle a rejection.”

Steve makes a noise of understanding. “You really care about him, huh?”

Peter nods, biting his lip and looking away.

“Alright, so here’s the plan.” Steve jumps to his feet and asks FRIDAY to start typing up a list of notes. “First things first, we have to get that scary friend of yours involved. MJ, right? We need someone on the inside that knows the two of you. Okay, now we need a list of date ideas that you can pull off without making it obvious that they’re dates. What’ve you got in mind, Pete?”

Steve turns to see Peter staring at him, mouth opened in shock.

“What?”

“Since when do you know how to take holographic notes?” Peter asks, dumbfounded.

The man throws his hands up. “Why does everyone assume I’m still living in the stone age?” He exclaims exasperatedly. “It’s 2019, I’ve been living in the Avengers Tower for 7 years, and I’m a national queer icon!”

“Oh, jeez, Stevie,” Bucky startles the pair from the entrance to the gym, neither having heard his approach. “It’s way too early in the morning for your “I’m a legendary gay” speech.”

“Are you kidding?” Tony suddenly appears, barreling passed the soldier and making a beeline for the bench next to Peter, a full bowl of popcorn in his hands of all things. “It’s never a bad time to hear about all of the monuments you two have defaced.” The man’s grin is devious. “C’mon, Cap, talk liberal to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave kudos for our National Queer Icon Steve Rogers.
> 
> So sorry this chapter is late! I had a rough weekend, ended up spiraling toward a relapse, fought tooth and nail to stay out of it, and on top of that, school and work have been kicking my ass.
> 
> I'm so worried that my characters aren't dimensional enough and that chapters like these tend to get lost in dialogue. I always go back and read my work again and again, even after it's posted, so hopefully any weird character moments will get smoothed out. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone that left kudos and comments so far. Comments especially mean the world to me and I always take the time to reply to every single one!
> 
> Also: if there's something you want to see in the final three chapters, let me know, because they're not written yet I have some playing room. Is there a relationship you want me to focus on? A specific trope you'd like to see? More or less of a certain character? I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much everyone is queer in this verse so if that's not your thing maybe look elsewhere.
> 
> Also, yes, Coulson lives. How? Idk, the power of love?
> 
> As always, TW for ED thoughts.

Not for the first time, Peter is sitting in silent awe watching one of his teammates in the gym.

Natasha isn’t firing perfect shot after perfect shot, or tackling a dummy to the ground, or tazing the life out of a junior SHIELD agent that mistakenly volunteered to help the Avengers with their training.

She’s flying.

Or, rather, dancing; but such an ordinary verb does so little to portray the artistry of her movement, the poise with which she holds herself on her pointe shoes, the silence of her landings, the grace of her posture. Her limbs are all perfectly controlled and perfectly in synch with the soft piano music filtering through the dance studio (because of course the Avengers Tower has a dance studio. It also has a bowling alley and 3 indoor pools).

When Nat offered to show him a few steps that she learned in the Red Room, he was not expecting this.

“That was…” Peter trails off, shaking his head in wonder as Natasha pads over to where he’s sat on the floor against the mirrors.

Her hands are on her hips and she’s breathing hard, but her smile is blinding.

“I’m a little rusty,” she admits ruefully, “but it feels so good to move like that again. It’s been too long.”

“A little rusty?” Peter demands, “You’re incredible!”

Natasha is horrified to feel a blush rise to her cheeks at the sincerity of his tone. Hopefully the redness from exertion cancels it out.

She brushes him off, “I didn’t bring you down here to be showered in praise.”

She adds what she hopes is a warm smile when the kid’s expression falters slightly.

“I mean, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it, but I wanted to show you what it’s like to exercise for the simple joy of doing something you love. Physical activity shouldn’t be about punishing your body or beating it into submission; it should be fun.”

Peter ducks his head at that. “Right. Fun.”

Nat barks out a surprised laugh at the dryness of his tone. “I know you’ve been working hard on changing your approach to exercise, but you don’t have to spend all your time lifting weights with Sam.”

“I can’t dance, Nat.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“No.”

“Well, c’mon then.”

She grabs his hand and drags him to the middle of the floor. He could stop her if he really wanted to, but part of him wants to experience what she did. The joy on her face when she was dancing was infectious. He wants to feel that way, too.

She guides him through a quick warmup before teaching him the basics of foot and arm positions at the barre, and he’s surprised at the burn in his muscles after only a few exercises. He’s been training regularly, both on his own and with the team, and though he’s not quite in combat shape yet, he didn’t think dancing would take so much out of him. Muscles that he didn’t even know he had are burning and Peter relishes in the feeling of it; he loves knowing that he’s making himself stronger.

Natasha expected Peter to be a natural, but after watching the ease with which he moved through the basics, she’d be more inclined to use a word like “prodigy”. That spider bite created a super hero, but it also created one hell of a dancer.

“Alright, let’s call it for the day,” she pants after a while.

“What, no,” Peter whines, “I want to learn how to spin!”

“We’ve been dancing for two hours, Peter.”

“So?”

“So, it’s time to give your body a break.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I don’t need a break, Nat. Super-spider, remember?”

“Mhm. Super-spider with a tendency to overwork himself until he collapses.”

He pouts.

“Save the puppy-dog eyes for Stark,” she says with an eye roll. “C’mon, shower up and I’ll let you pick where we eat tonight.”

Peter freezes, anxiety making his blood run cold. “We’re going out?”

“Yup,” she replies easily, choosing to ignore his worry. “Clint, Coulson, and I go out on every first Friday of the month and today you’re going to join us.”

As always, her tone leaves no room for argument and Peter finds himself not only agreeing, but even looking forward to the outing. He hasn’t gotten the chance to eat outside of the Tower or school since before he was sick. The team orders in often enough, but eating out in public is a whole other ordeal. If he’s going to do this, he has the highest chance of succeeding with three of the most terrifying people he’s ever met. They might just be enough to scare his eating disorder into submission.

* * *

 

_No way. I don’t believe you._

_I told you, I never miss a shot._ Clint grins around a mouthful of rice and Peter pretends to gag.

Coulson rolls his eyes. _I apologize on behalf of his animalistic behavior._ His signs are clear and confident. _This is why we only go out once a month._

Nat taps Peter’s arm before she tells him, _I saw that shot with my own two eyes, he’s not lying._

 _Behind your back?!_ The teen raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

Clint nods his fist with a smirk.

Coulson shoves him lightly, biting back a smile of his own. _Perhaps your talents would be better suited to tutoring your less experienced teammates and not making ridiculous trick shots during important missions so you can brag about them later._

The archer’s laughter is bright and loud, always freer when he’s not wearing his hearing aids. Phil has a point.

_What do you say, Peter? Want me to help you hit the target more than 80% of the time?_

Peter slams down his fork with indignance so he can use both hands to declare, _I’m going to kill Sam._

The three adults laugh, Nat ruffles his hair, and through some unspoken agreement they all refocus on their dishes that have started to get cold while they were telling stories.

Peter has managed to finish two-thirds of his plate, but he’s having trouble with the rest. The meal is no larger than what he would eat at home, but he’s acutely aware of how big restaurant portions are for the average person. Clint is the only other one with a chance of finishing his, and he has at least 50 pounds on Peter’s small frame.

Of course, Clint isn’t enhanced like Peter is and comparing what he’s eating with everyone else is stupid and unhelpful.

Peter sighs. He isn’t full, but his head has decided he’s done with dinner. Pushing through the desire to restrict himself is exhausting and he was having such a good night otherwise.

Agent Coulson tilts his head at him in response to his sigh.

 _It’s nothing,_ Peter signs quickly. He knows that the agent is fully aware of his illnesses and food-related struggles, but he’s not quite ready to explain himself to a man he rarely spends time with.

 _If you can finish that, I’ll let you share my rocky road ice cream back at the Tower,_ Clint offers.

Nat smacks him upside the head. _You can’t bribe away an eating disorder with ice cream, Clint._

 _Wait,_ Peter waves a hand to stop her. _Yes, he can._

Ice cream is Peter’s favorite food. He denied himself the treat for so long that now it’s become a staple in recovery. He’s nearly banished the guilt completely because, for some reason, it’s easier for Peter to eat sweets than it is to force himself to eat full meals.

It doesn’t always make for the healthiest food choices, but he only allowed himself “healthy” choices for the longest time, so he’s earned a little extra sugar.

_Are we talking a full pint, or…_

Clint frowns, considering. _Half?_

_All or nothing._

He groans and roughly stabs his thumb against his chest. _Fine._

Peter’s grin is so genuinely excited that it’s hard for the archer to actually be annoyed. But that doesn’t stop him from turning his pleading eyes on Phil.

 _Yes, you can have my mint chocolate chip,_ the man signs without hesitation.

Clint pecks him on the cheek.

 _You boys and your ice cream,_ Nat rolls her eyes, but she’s secretly pleased by Peter’s weakness for ice cream. It’s a testament to how far he’s come in his recovery that he’s begging for a full pint.

 _Hey Nat, why don’t you tell Peter about that shot you made in Reno?_ Clint gets the conversation rolling again. It’s hard for him to stop talking when he’s surrounded by other signers; he so rarely gets to use his language like this and he takes full advantage of it every time.

_No._

Her face is firm, and Peter’s curiosity is immediately piqued.

_Reno?_

Coulson’s smirk matches Clint’s. _That was an interesting mission, wasn’t it, Agent Romanov?_

_Coulson, I swear—_

_C’mon, Nat, this is a story that needs to be told._

_If you continue, the only story we’ll be telling is that of your death._

Peter has never seen ASL look so violent.

Clint doesn’t back down. _Please?_

The teen breaks out his puppy eyes and matches Clint’s pleading. _Please?_

Nat sighs before showing them 4 different signs. _Horse. Bridesmaid. Potato. Brain._

There’s a beat of silence where the table waits for her to offer more information. She doesn’t.

 _That’s it?_ Peter demands.

_Yup. Deal with it._

Peter signs close to his chest, turning so that only Clint can see his words. _You’ll tell me later, right?_

 _Not if he knows what’s good for him,_ Nat signs sharply.

Clint winks at Peter.

Natasha picks up her steak knife.

* * *

 

Peter cracks one eye opened and groans into the dark of his bedroom.

The pounding in his head that started last night did not go away, but instead it brought along some friends in the form of a scratchy throat and a stuffy nose.

He sits up and has to blink through a wave of dizziness, shivering now that he’s out of his blanket cocoon, and contemplates just going back to bed.

Peter hates being sick.

And he especially hates being sick on Mondays.

He doubly especially hates being sick on Mondays when he has a physics exam second period.

But he spent the whole weekend studying for this stupid test; if he stays home, he’s going to have to redo all of that work when he finally gets over whatever super-illness has knocked him on his ass.

Dragging himself out of bed, Peter stumbles to his bathroom to start getting ready for school.

He struggles to hold up his toothbrush, his muscles weak and uncooperative, and he knows without checking the time that he’s already running late. Pulling clothes on makes Peter whine through his teeth; even his softest sweater feels too rough on his sensitive skin and moving is harder than it should be with all of his muscles aching.  

When he finally makes his way to the common kitchen, he’s greeted with a raised eyebrow from Mr. Stark.

“Woah, you look like shit.”

He tries to respond with something snarky, but the breath he takes in leads to a coughing fit that drains the sass right out of him.

Tony puts a steadying hand on his shoulder and hands him a glass of water. Last night, Peter had confessed that he had a headache and was feeling pretty run-down, and Tony had hoped that would go away with a good night's sleep.

“I guess that headache didn’t go away, huh?”

Peter shakes his head, eyes closed, and sighs.

 “Do you want to stay home today?” The kid has dragged himself to school when he was starving to death, when he had broken bones and split lips, and when he was out protecting the citizens of Queens all night. Tony knows the answer before he asks the question.

Another head shake. “Physics test.”

Tony frowns in sympathy, knowing how difficult it is to focus when your brain is pounding against your skull. “Alright, call me when you’re done and I’ll come get you. I know you want to get that test over with but there’s no reason for you to stay all day when you’re this sick," he suggests, fighting back the urge to wrap his kid in a blanket and lock him in his room until he's feeling better.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

Peter slumps into a chair and rests his head on the cool granite table, shutting his eyes for a few moments before he has to leave.

Tony runs his hand through Peter's hair, scratching at his scalp and trying to massage away some of the pain. “Does he have a fever, FRIDAY?”

“Mr. Parker’s temperature is 99.9 degrees Fahrenheit.”

Peter makes a noise of discomfort. “Feels worse than that.”

“Feeling too nauseous to try to eat before you go?”

He nods.

“You want to try some juice? Maybe a smoothie?"

"Not really."

Tony tries to reign in the frustration. He always feels like he's in way over his head in situations like these. Sure, Peter has been weight restored for a few weeks, but does that mean it's okay for him to skip a meal every now and then? If Tony was the one feeling ill, he definitely wouldn't force himself to eat, but then, Tony isn't recovering from anorexia.

Not for the first time, he bites his lip to keep from vocalizing his crippling fear that he has no idea what he's doing and that every decision that he makes is only serving to hurt Peter even more.

“Okay, I won’t push," he finally says, voice light. "We’ll see how you feel when you get home.”

Peter hums in agreement. 

“Who’s driving me today?”

“I am,” replies Sam, walking into the room right on cue. “I’m headed to the VA right after.”

The Avengers have been taking turns driving Peter to school. If anyone has errands to run in the area that day they’ll volunteer, but Clint drives him most mornings on his way to SHIELD. He’s Peter’s favorite driver; careful and efficient, but Sam isn’t as bad of a driver as Steve, so he lucked out today.

Sam pauses, getting a good look at Peter for the first time that morning. His face is white as a sheet and his teeth are chattering despite being wrapped in two sweaters in the middle of May.

“You sick?”

“Yup.”

“And you’re still going to school?”

“Just to take a test.”

The man considers him, doubtful. “Is your brain working at all right now?”

“Mmm,” Peter pauses to think, “maybe at 50% capacity.”

“Right, so still at genius levels then, you’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

* * *

 

“I’m so sorry I have to cancel on you tonight.”

“Dude, you literally look like you’re about to pass out, it’s fine.”

“But we were supposed to go ice skating and—”

“Peter,” Ned interrupts him, “you don’t have to apologize for being sick. We’ll go out when you’re feeling better.”

He pouts. “Promise?”

Ned smiles warmly and squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “Promise.”

The hallway is bustling around them, Midtown students on their way to their first period classes, but Peter and Ned are in their own little bubble, smiling shyly at each other and standing so close that their feet are touching.

Peter realizes that last part and takes a hasty step back.

“I don’t want to get you sick,” he explains.

Ned rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine. C’mon.” He reaches for Peter’s hand. “We’re going to be late for English.”

If Peter’s brain wasn’t so muddled by his increasing fever, he might have faltered over the fact that Ned is holding his hand in the middle of a crowded hallway. But, as it is, his grip is about the only thing that’s holding him upright and he doesn’t have the energy to freak out about a cute boy holding his hand. He’ll freak out when he no longer feels like death warmed over.

* * *

 

“How was your physics test?”

“You’re not Mr. Stark,” is Peter’s intelligent response.

Steve laughs. “Good observation, Peter. He got called out for an emergency meeting with his financial board, something about unprecedented sales…I stopped listening.”

Peter hums in acknowledgement and starts clambering to his feet, appreciating the hand Steve reaches out to him when the Nurse’s office tilts precariously.

“Heard you’re not feeling so hot,” he continues, voice casual while his brain whirrs through a systematic examination to determine the level of danger Peter is in. He relaxes only marginally when he finds that the kid isn’t on death’s door and probably just has a nasty case of the flu.

Peter stumbles through the doorway and Steve has to resist the urge to carry him out to the car.

“Feeling pretty cold, actually,” he finally replies as they walk down the hall toward the front of the school.

Steve frowns. “It’s 75 degrees outside.”

“That sounds fake, but okay.”

As soon as the two step outside, Steve puts a warm hand on Peter’s forehead and he leans into it, sighing with relief. No sooner does the hand disappear, he’s being lifted and held against a warm, broad chest. Steve’s body heat causes his sore muscles to relax, so Peter can’t find it in himself to protest the manhandling aside from an indignant squawk that immediately turns into a violent coughing fit.

“Cover your mouth kid, you’re going to give me the plague,” Steve chastises to hide his growing concern.

Instead of his usually sassy response, Peter gives a mumbled, “Sorry,” and Steve is definitely not panicking now.

He situates the teen in the front seat before sitting behind the wheel and making quick work of getting them back to the Tower.

Peter has to fight back a few whimpers when Steve makes a particularly sharp turn or drives directly into a pothole, stomach churning and head pounding. He can feel the worry rolling off the man, he doesn’t want to add to it.

Once there, Cap carries Peter straight to the Medbay, intent on figuring out what the hell is wrong with him before it gets any worse. He’s not letting that happen again. Not on his watch.

The doctor on call is a slight, older woman with a distinctly Italian accent. She smiles warmly at Steve when he bursts through the door.

“Good morning, Captain,” she greets pleasantly, “Thank you for bringing him in.”

“Good morning. He has a fever, he’s weak, and his coughs are wet,” he reports a little blunter than he would normally respond, too concerned to bother with pleasantries.

Doctor Hall just smiles, understanding. “Go ahead and set him down, dear. We’ll get him feeling better in no time.”

Peter clings tightly to Steve’s shoulders, whining when the soldier tries to set him down on the bed, and Steve’s heart melts.

“Hey, bud, I have to put you down so the doctor can look at you, okay?”

Peter whines again. He just wants to sleep. “No doctors.”

“You’re burning up; I’m worried about you.”

The teen grumbles, but eventually allows Steve to lower him onto the bed, grabbing his hand when the man tries to straighten up.

“I’m not going anywhere, Pete.”

Doctor Hall ends up drawing some blood to confirm her suspicions, but Peter’s flu has already worsened enough for him to develop pneumonia on top of it. She says it’s unsurprising; his body fights off illness faster than the average person, so it makes sense that his condition would progress faster than normal. The good news is that this means he’ll also recover faster than the average person.

She gives him a dose of antibiotics, orders lots of rest and fluids, and sends them on their way.

Peter asks to be picked up this time, and Steve feels his heart double in size.

He’s never seen himself as much of a father figure—he’s a soldier through and through—but he’s also a leader, and leaders take care of their teammates. He was Bucky’s caretaker those first few weeks and it didn’t take long for him to realize that he was much more comfortable fulfilling that role than he was when the roles were reversed.  

These days, Bucky is his own man with a firm grasp on his mental and physical well being and their relationship is one of equality. He loves everything about their dynamic, but there were times he felt like something was missing in his life. He didn’t realize that he missed having someone to take care of.

But now, Peter’s hands wrapped around Steve’s shoulders and his face buried in his neck, it’s like a lock clicked into place.

There are still people that need him to be strong. He can rise to the occasion.

After checking with FRIDAY to see who's in the common room, he decides to bring Peter there, unwilling to let his youngest teammate be alone in his room when he's this ill.

Carrying the teen into the room causes 3 concerned heads to turn in his direction.

"Woah, is he okay?" Clint is the first to ask.

"What hath befallen our youngling? To whom do I need to pay a most unwelcome visit?"

Steve bites back a warm smile at the protective instincts of his team. "Relax, Thor. He's got the flu and a case of pneumonia, but his body is already healing itself; he'll be fine."

Peter grumbles into Steve's shoulder, protesting that last statement. He feels like shit.

The man pats him on the back in response, and carefully sets him on the couch. The teen immediately curls into himself, shivering.

Natasha reappears—when did she leave the room—with a blanket and a box of tissues, and Peter smiles blearily up at her.

"Have you eaten today?"

He shakes his head and Natasha looks over at Clint, expectantly.

"Soup duty, got it." He heads for the kitchen.

At Peter's weary expression, she laughs, "Don't worry, Peter, I won't let him poison you. He's actually a really good cook."

 _I know_ , he signs, _but I don't feel good, I don't want to eat_.

"You need to keep your strength up so your body can heal," Steve reminds him.

_But my stomach hurts._

"Aye, and the pain shall continue should you refuse nourishment, young Parker."

Horrifyingly, Peter feels tears burn behind his eyelids. He's always an emotional mess when he's sick.

Steve's need to protect overwhelms him, and before he knows what he's doing, he's sitting next to Peter and pulling the teen against his side, running a hand up and down his arm.

"I know you're feeling lousy, Pete, I know, but you have to try to eat something, okay? I'm not going to force you, but you know as well as I do how hard it is for you to get back on track if you skip too many meals."

He nods miserably. "I know, I'm sorry, I just—” he stops to cough, and his voice is barely audible when he finishes, "I hate this."

"I hear you, bud," Steve empathizes.

Peter hastily starts to pull himself away. "Sorry, sorry, I don't—I didn't mean to complain, I know you had it so much worse and medicine is better now and my metabolism and—”

"Woah, woah, woah," Nat cuts him off, "Breathe, Peter."

In lieu of that, he lets out several hacking coughs before he manages to gasp in a few breaths.

"Easy, you're alright."

When he finally gets his breath back, he wheezes out another, "Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" Steve wonders.

He shrugs. "You used to be sick all the time and you didn't have access to medicine or a super metabolism to help you. I have both of those things and I'm sitting here whining about it."

"Jesus, Peter," Steve pulls him back into his side, "You're allowed to complain if you're not feeling well. You are one of the most grateful, optimistic people I've ever met; it'd actually make me feel better about myself if you whined now and then."

Peter lets out a breathy laugh that turns into another coughing fit and once it's over, he makes the smart decision to stay silent, cuddling closer to his captain as his response.

Steve is unsurprised when the kid promptly falls asleep. He's had a long morning.

Natasha raises a questioning eyebrow and he shakes his head at her; he's not going anywhere.

She gives him a small smile before settling on the opposite couch and returning to whatever task they had interrupted with their arrival. A quick glace reveals that she's polishing her knives.

When Clint reenters the room he declares, "Soup is simmering on the stove, it'll be ready soon."

"Thanks, Clint." Steve tilts his head toward the sleeping teenager. "He'll probably be out for a while."

"Good. Crazy kid needs to let himself rest sometimes."

Steve huffs out a laugh and cards a hand through Peter's curls. "You got that right."

 

When Peter wakes, his first though is that he's hot—much too hot. He starts struggling out of the blanket wrapped around him and lets out a noise of discomfort that leads to a violent coughing fit. By the time he's done trying to hack up a lung, his throat is on fire and there are tears running down his face.

"Shhh, you're okay," Natasha is murmuring low in his ear while rubbing soothing circles onto his back.

He takes the glass of water that she offers him and manages a few sips before the burning pain in his throat forces him to stop. He settles back against Natasha's side—when did he get there and where did Steve go—and looks over to see Clint curled up on her other side in a similar fashion, face twisted in discomfort.

_Is he okay?_

_Migraine. He fell asleep with his ears in_.

Peter frowns. _What time is it?_

_6pm._

His eyes widen.

 _Relax, you needed the rest._ She cards a hand through his hair. _How are you feeling?_

_Terrible._

_I'm going to have to insist that you eat something now that you're awake_.

He pouts.

She ignores him and sends out a text to Pepper who, by now, is probably somewhere in the Tower.

When she appears to help Peter eat a bowl of soup, he has to applaud Natasha's foresight. He definitely would have thrown a fit if it was anyone else.

As it is, he knows he needs to eat to help his immune system fight off this illness, but he has no appetite and he's terrified that he's just going to throw it all up later.

But Pepper's patience wins in the end. When Peter puts the mostly full bowl down after only a few spoonfuls, she gives him a second before picking it up herself and offering to feed him. Mortified, he takes it from her and eats on his own, trying to enjoy the soothing feeling in his throat and ignore the churning in his stomach.

With Pepper's encouragement, he manages a little more than half of the soup before he sets the bowl down for good, leaning back against Natasha and curling his arms protectively around his stomach. He knows he needs more fuel than that, but he feels awful.

Pepper squeezes his knee with a warm smile anyway. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart."

He closes his eyes to halt the overwhelmed tears threatening to break the surface once again. "Thanks, Miss Potts."

She leans forward to press a kiss to Peter's forehead, making a note of how warm he feels, before rising to clean up in the kitchen and get Peter's next dose of medication.

Bucky beats her to it. He shaking out one of the antibiotics into his hand when she walks in, and he wastes no time in asking nervously, "How is he? Stevie told me it's pneumonia?"

"Relax, James, you know pneumonia isn't as serious as it used to be," she says gently, walking forward to put a steadying hand on his arm, "He's feeling pretty run down right now but he's going to be fine."

"Right, sorry I just..."

"You care about him, so of course you're worried. I understand."

He sighs, turning to lean back against the counter and rubs a hand down his face. "When we were young, I did what I could to protect Steve," he begins quietly, "whether he wanted my help or not, he got it. I thought I was doing a good job—had myself convinced I was made for this caretaker role—until he ended up in the hospital fighting for his life. You know they thought he was going to need a lung transplant?"

Pepper's eyes widen, both at the realities of Steve's previous illnesses and at the openness that Bucky is displaying. "No, he never told me about that."

Bucky smiles ruefully. "'Course he didn't, stubborn bastard. Told him I was willing to give up my lungs for him and he said he'd never forgive me for being willing to throw my life away. But that's...it's not that I want to die—god, nothing like that—I just don't know how to care about someone in a normal way, you know? There isn't anyone in this Tower that I wouldn't risk my life to save, maybe that's not healthy, but I 'dunno. Maybe I'm just lucky to be surrounded by people who are worth fighting for."

Pepper swallows passed a wave of emotion, gripping James' arm tighter, and chokes out, "We’re all lucky to have you, too." She stands on her tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "Peter is lucky to have you."

Ducking his head at the praise, and to hide his shining eyes, Bucky picks up Peter's medicine and heads into the common room with one last squeeze of Pepper's hand. God, how she reminds him of his sister.

"Hey, pal," he crouches in front of a half-asleep Peter, "you have to take your medicine before you go to sleep."

"Mmph."

"I know you're tired, c'mon, you can sleep in a minute."

He groans again but eventually pushes himself into a slightly more upright position, accepting the pills and the water from Bucky and swallowing with a grimace.

_Thanks._

"You got it, bud. Sweet dreams."

He rises silently to his feet, meeting Natasha's gaze as he does. She smiles at him.

_You're good with him._

He shrugs, blushing, before pointing at Clint to change the subject. _Migraine?_

She nods.

_Need anything?_

_There should be more Excedrin in the cabinet, he'll need more when he wakes up._

_Got it._

He retrieves the medicine and tosses it onto the coffee table in front of the sleeping archer.

_Thank you._

"You're welcome."

He planned on staying with Peter until he fell asleep, but he trusts that Nat and Pepper have the situation under control. He knows that Peter trusts him and every member of the team, but he has always responded the best to the ladies' warmth.

Feeling a sudden urge to make sure Steve's lung function is where it should be, he sets off in search of his partner.

* * *

 

The teenager on his arm stirs with a barely audible whimper and Tony is immediately on high alert, grateful that Cap had the foresight to carry Peter up to the penthouse for the night, the California king bed more than large enough for him, Pepper, and a small teen. Of course, said teen decided that the best place on the bed was curled up against Tony's side, even clingier than normal in his bleary state, but he doesn't mind. In fact, he feels quite the opposite at this current arrangement. He always thought he'd be a terrible father—Peter said himself that the apple didn't fall far from the tree—but looking down at Peter's pale face twisted up in discomfort, the paternal instincts that he used to fight away come through stronger than ever.

He pushes the kid's sweaty hair off his forehead and murmurs, "Shh, you're alright, Pete, it's okay."

Mr. Stark's voice does little to calm Peter, his stomach rolling violently before he's even fully awake, and he really, really, doesn't want to be sick.

He untangles himself from the blankets and manages to sit up, swaying slightly, and takes a moment to assess whether or not he can ignore the nausea.

A wet burp decides for him and he bolts for the bathroom, a hand clamped tightly over his mouth. He barely manages to get the toilet seat up before he's losing the soup he forced down earlier, and whatever was left in his stomach from the day before. He's resting his elbows on the toilet, hands fisted in his hair, and he distantly feels the ache in his knees from crashing onto the tile.

When the forceful gags let up for a moment, there's a soft knock at the door.

Peter groans. Of course he still can’t be trusted. "I'm not fucking purging," he snaps.

Pepper sighs before opening the door. "I know that, honey." She closes it softly behind her and kneels beside him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his back. "I didn't want you to be alone."

He bursts into tears.

He hasn't thrown up since he began his recovery and he forgot how much he hates it. It was different then, when he was the one controlling the sick, but now there is no control; he's at the mercy of his body and he's scared. He's scared of spending the night in the bathroom, he's scared of not being able to eat for a few days, and he's especially scared that this is going to thrust him into a relapse that he's not going to be able to climb out of.

He tries to explain this to Miss Potts but all he gets out is a strangled, "I'm scared," before he throws up again.

Through it all, she is a calming force by his side, rubbing his back, whispering sweet phrases in his ear, wiping his face when he slumps against her, spent.

His distressed whimpering is breaking her heart. "I know it's scary, but you're going to be okay."

He shakes his head and lets out a sob.

"This isn't going to ruin all of your progress, Peter." She knows she discovered his real fear when he starts crying harder. "Honey, I need you to listen to me." She waits until he quiets down before continuing. "I know that this is triggering for you, but you don't have to deal with that on your own anymore. You have to talk to us, or to your friends, and you're going to see Jaime as soon as you're feeling better. None of us are going to let anorexia steal you away again. You're going to get over being sick and you're going to keep living your life. One day at a time."

He takes in a few shuddering breaths before whispering, "Thanks, May."

Pepper tries not to freeze, hoping Peter is too out of it to realize what he just said.

No such luck.

He sits up and whips his head around to stare at her, wide-eyed and panicked. Did he just--?

He clamps his hands over his mouth to muffle the wails he lets out, completely overwhelmed and unable to stop the sudden outpouring of grief.

She throws her arms around him and holds him as tightly as she can, sagging with relief when Tony joins them in the bathroom, supporting them both as they cry and cry and cry.

 

"I called Miss Potts May," Peter confesses to Jaime two days later, weak, but on the mend.

"And how did she react to that?"

He smiles at the memory. "She told me that she loved me, and that she wished she could be like Aunt May because she—May raised me," Peter has to pause. "Miss Potts said that she didn't need to meet Aunt May to know that she was amazing because I'm a reflection of her and—” he's been doing lots of crying these days and today is no exception, "and she loves me."

"Are you surprised to learn that she loves you?"

"No, I 'dunno, I guess I knew that. I mean, I know that. The whole team loves me. It's just..."

"It's been a while since you heard it, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How did you feel about accidentally calling Miss Potts by your aunt's name?"

He takes a minute to collect his thoughts. "I was horrified at first--I totally freaked. I felt like I betrayed her. But now...I know that's not what it was about." He smiles up at his therapist, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I love her. I love Miss Potts, and I love Mr. Stark. I love Bucky and Steve and Sam and Clint and Nat and Bruce and Thor. I love my team—my family—and I feel so lucky to have them."

"They're lucky to have you too, Peter."

"Yeah, I'm—I think I'm starting to see that."

* * *

 

The two and a half sick days that Peter had to spend home from school were necessary but staring down at the calculus homework in front of him, he wishes that he had fought a little harder to go back yesterday.

AP Calculus II has been his worst subject since the semester began, but he still has an A in the class. He fights tooth and nail for that A while giving off the impression that he puts in zero effort because that’s what you do at Midtown. You cry over physics homework and then brag to your friends that the exam was a breeze and that you didn’t even study. It’s STEM school culture, and Peter knows how to play the part.

He realizes he’s been staring at the same problem for too long when he accidentally snaps his pencil in his hand.

Okay. He can do this.

Sure, he missed two days of lectures that introduced brand new material, but he has his textbook, he can figure this out.

Twenty minutes later, Peter is starting to think that he can’t figure this out.

He can’t call Ned or MJ, they’re not taking calc two this semester. Flash is the only other junior in his class and there’s no way he’s going to text him. The guy has finally started to back off, Peter is not about to give him reason to start tormenting him again.

He’s on his own.

Peter hates this feeling; staring at his homework and having no idea where to start; not even being able to pinpoint what he doesn’t understand. He hates feeling stupid.

He doesn’t notice that his hands are shaking until he goes to reach for his textbook again, and the visual confirmation of how out of control he feels is what does it.

He can’t breathe.

His mind, usually buzzing with information, is a frantic chorus of ‘panic!’ and he’s instantly doing just that.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he chants, frustrated at his body for betraying him like this and trying to stop the trembling in his limbs through sheer force of will.

He could sit here and ride out the impending panic attack on his own, save the team the trouble of worrying about Peter being overwhelmed with school, and just not do the assignment.

He lets out a frustrated groan. He knows he’s not going to do that.

Scowling at his stupid, shaky hands, he grabs his homework and heads for the elevator.

It’s not officially movie night, but everyone aside from Nat and Tony are gathered in the common living room, eyes trained on the screen. Only Clint notices Peter’s arrival—because he notices everything—but his worried, “What’s wrong?” is enough to cause 5 heads to snap towards him.

Peter swallows hard. The comforting presence of his team causes the tight lid he put on his anxiety to fly off and he’s suddenly gasping again.

“Okay, alright, hey,” Bucky is moving towards him slowly, arms out, offering.

But Peter already feels trapped in his head, like the intelligent part of his brain is buried forever, so he takes a clumsy step back.

“No touching, got it,” he continues gently. “Tell me five things you can see right now.”

Peter didn’t even realize he had closed his eyes.

“Um. There’s—I don’t—”

“Focus.”

His eyes snap up to Bucky’s. “You.”

“Good, who else is here?”

“Steve, Sam—” he stops to pant. “Um, C-Clint. Bruce, Thor.”

“You’re doing great, Peter. What color is your shirt?”

He looks down to check and catches sight of how badly he’s shaking.

Bucky curses himself when he sees the teen’s panic increase.Wrong move.

“Color, Pete.”

“Blue, I—it’s blue.”

“And mine?”

“Gray.”

Bucky takes him through the articles of clothing of each Avenger and by the time he gets to Thor, he’s able to breathe out a laugh. “Of course he’s not wearing a shirt.”

No longer feeling like he’s suffocating, Peter all but falls forward in Bucky’s embrace and let’s himself be held for a moment.

“Thanks, Buck.”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

Bucky looks up to see Sam’s self-satisfied smirk and the man flips him off, trying to hide his blush at the pride in Sam’s expression.

“Is that...Calculus?” Steve asks incredulously, peering at the paper in Peter’s hand over Bucky’s shoulders.

Peter flushes with shame.

“Yeah. I, um, I’m having some trouble with it and I was wondering if anyone has a minute to help me?”

“With AP calculus?” Steve clarifies.

He nods.

“Let me take a look at it, Pete,” Clint calls from across the room.

All eyes turn on him, and several of the men raise their eyebrows. Clint’s face hardens.

“Alright, cool it with the shock, assholes, I can do math.”

“Clint, you asked me what epitome means last week,” Sam points out.

“Yeah, because English is a stupid language.”

Bucky isn’t convinced. “Did you even go to high school?”

“I got my GED when I was 12.”

“And somehow took college level courses while working in the circus?”

Sam adds, “Despite your 4th grade reading level?”

“That’s enough,” Steve snaps, chin raised as if daring someone to continue. His tone is one hundred percent Captain, and both Bucky and Sam have the sense to look ashamed. 

“I appreciate it, Cap, but I don’t need you to jump to my aid. I’ve heard worse.”

“Not from your team.”

“He’s right,” Sam admits, “that was shitty of me, I’m sorry.”

Bucky starts to add his own apology, but Clint brushes them off. “Look, no harm done. C’mon, Peter, let’s go set up in the kitchen.” He hastily retreats from the room, hoping the kid gets the hint and follows just as quickly. Watching his team try to figure out how they insulted him this time is exasperating, and he doesn’t have the patience tonight.

He’s used to being considered the dumb one, and he plays the part often enough that he can use it to his advantage. Between his hearing loss and subsequent loose handle on English grammar and his unusual upbringing, it’s unsurprising that the team is hesitant to believe he can do college math.

But how the hell did they think he learned how to shoot? By studying syntax?

He rolls his eyes. Smug bastards.

Grabbing a few pencils from the drawer next to the fridge, Clint takes a seat at the counter and slaps the chair next to him.

“Okay, Pete, lay it on me.”

Peter slides the worksheet across the table and takes a breath.

“So, I missed the first two lectures on antiderivatives and I’m completely lost. Nothing on this paper makes sense to me; I don’t even know where to start.”

“Antiderivatives,” he nods, frowning in concentration as he pulls up the knowledge in his head. “Alright, let’s do this.”

There’s a StarkPad sitting on the table and Clint grabs it, one look confirming that it’s Sam’s, and enters his password to unlock it.

“How did you...” Peter starts, then trails off and shakes his head, “never mind.”

The archer smirks.

“So, with antiderivatives, you’re basically finding derivatives backwards. The most important thing to understand is that the antiderivative of a function, f, is equal to a function whose derivative is f.”

Peter stared at him blankly.

“Okay, uh, example...” he starts drawing a function on the StarkPad. “Here, find the derivative of f.”

Peter does with minimal struggle.

“Okay, good.” He adds a few arrows to connect the pieces of the equation. “So, x to the fifth over 5 is the antiderivative of x to the fourth. What’s the pattern there?”

“Add one to the power and divide by the new power,” he answers without hesitation.

“Right. How about pie turning into pie times x. What did we do?”

“Just multiplied by the variable.”

“Yup. And then all you do is add the constant. Now you have the antiderivative of this function. Make sense?”

“I think so.”

“Here,” he slides Peter’s homework back over to him. “Try the first problem on your own.”

He starts out confident, but quickly realizes that he has no idea what he’s doing. His hand hovers over the page and he bites his lip to keep it from trembling. He stares at the problem until it starts to blur.

Clint interrupts him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Hey, where are you stuck?”

 _I don’t know,_ Peter signs quickly, because if he tries to speak his voice will crack and he doesn’t want to have a second breakdown tonight.

“Okay, here, let’s talk this out in ASL, maybe seeing it will help things make more sense.”

He stands up and starts his explanation again, asking FRIDAY to pull up diagrams and examples as he goes, his expressions animated and relaxed the way they always are when he’s signing. He should’ve tried this from the beginning; he’s much better at getting a concept across in ASL. The English likely just confused the both of them.

 _Wait_ , Peter interrupts after a few minutes. _I think I understand_.

 _Show me_.

And Peter does, hand moving furiously across the page as he stumbles through the first problem again. This time, when he puts his pencil down his hands are steady and a hopeful smile is creeping across his face.

“F of x equals 2x squared minus 4x to the ½ power?”

“Woo!” Clint’s triumphant exclamation is instantaneous, as is the proud smile that lights up his face. He pulls Peter off the kitchen chair and swings him in a circle, laughing at his surprised squeal. “That’s amazing, Peter! You did it!”

He drops him back onto his feet and ushers him back toward the table. “Quickly, do another one, you’re on a roll.”

He solves three more problems in quick succession, smile growing with each correct answer, and Clint can’t help mirroring the expression.

“You’re wicked smart, kid. That was impressive as hell.”

As always, Peter blushes with the praise. “I couldn’t have figured that out without you.”

“Maybe, but it took me weeks to learn what you did in a few minutes.”

He shrugs. “I’m privileged in lots of ways that you weren’t,” he points out. “Besides, you actually like this stuff.” He makes a disgusted face. “I’m only learning this because I have to.”

“What, you don’t like calculus?”

“Fuck calc, I’d rather spar with Natasha,” he deadpans.

She pops her head into the kitchen.

“That can be arranged.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for making you all wait almost a month for this, I doubled the chapter length as an apology. School and work keep me really busy and I haven't had time to write for fun. 
> 
> I like this chapter a lot and I hope you all do too; as Peter gets healthier, I have more room to explore other characters and their relationship with him. Basically, everyone loves Peter a whole lot and they're all trying their best to deal with their copious amounts of trauma. 
> 
> Speaking of trauma, the last scene was inspired by my deep-seeded hatred for calculus. The amount of breakdowns I had over AP calc in high school is what convinced me that I firmly belong in the category of "gays who can't do math." Fuck calculus. 
> 
> In the last chapter, Peter came out as gay to Sam, but that felt like bi erasure so I changed it to him saying that he's bi and the tags were updated accordingly. Happy 20bi-teen, y'all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for self-harm

The lights flicker on and off three times.

“Jesus, fuck!”

Ned and Peter jump apart, bumping into tables and sending tools crashing to the floor in their haste. They wipe their mouths with the back of their hands and frantically straighten crooked clothing.

“Dammit, Clint, a little warning next time?”

The man gestures vaguely to his ears as he strolls into the lab wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a quiver on his back, but doesn’t ask Peter to repeat himself.

He waits until Clint is facing him before doing so anyway. _Maybe bang on the wall before you walk in on us making out_?

He shrugs. _Sorry._

Peter rolls his eyes but doesn’t press the issue further. He’s used to the lack of privacy in the Tower and something about the archer is distinctly off; he’s twitchier than usual. _It’s fine, what’s up?_

Clint doesn’t answer right away, hopping up on a worktop. _Is Stark cool with you guys using his lab to swap spit in secret?_

Peter blushes while Ned quickly responds, _He doesn’t have to know._

The sass barely earns half a smile from the archer.

Peter kicks the leg of the table he’s on to get his attention. _Hey, what’s wrong?_

_Nothing._

The teen gives him a flat look.

_Is Agent Coulson still not home?_ Ned asks.

Peter whirls on him, hands moving furiously. _You’re not supposed to know about classified SHIELD missions!_

He smiles sheepishly. _Right._

Clint taps his hand on the table. _Phil went radio silent this morning._ He waves his hand to stop the teens’ frantic questions before continuing, _He warned me it could happen, but I didn’t hear from him before he dropped communication…_ he trails off, hands in his lap.

_He’s going to be fine,_ Peter assures him.

_I know, but…_

_But it’s hard to wait around for him to come home_ , Ned offers.

Peter gives him a startled look that morphs into one of sadness. Of course Ned understands—he used to wait for Peter to text him before he went to sleep every night; needing to make sure he got through patrol safely before he could rest.

Clint nods. _I hate waiting around feeling useless,_ he admits, before shaking his head, coming back to himself. _Sorry, I didn’t come here just to whine, I actually need help with something._

He pulls the quiver to his front and starts pulling out broken arrows.

Peter gapes. _How did you—what the hell were you shooting at? These are made of carbon!_

_The steel reinforcements on the panic doors,_ Clint answers casually.

Peter stares at him for a minute. _Why?_

He shrugs. _Felt like breaking things_. For a moment he has the sense to look ashamed. _Sorry_.

_It’s alright, I owe you. I got a 92 on my calculus quiz._

Clint reaches out for a fist bump.

_These are standard, right? You didn’t waste your taser arrows on a door?_

_Yeah, smartass, they’re standard._

_How many did you break?_

Clint’s face is sheepish when he slowly signs, _37._

Peter sighs. _Okay_. He gets to work with a sloppy, _entertain yourselves_ , directed at Ned and Clint.

“Thanks, Spidey,” he says aloud before turning to Ned. _Your signing is really good_ , he tells him as the teen climbs up on the table across from him. _You a CODA_?

_No, my little sister is deaf_.

_Ahh_ , Clint nods, _makes sense_.

_You know, she’s your biggest fan?_

_True biz?_

_True biz, you’re all she talks about. I know your deafness isn’t public knowledge, so we keep it on the DL_ (Clint rolls his eyes at the hearing phrase), _but you’re her idol. She’d love to meet you one day._

_Name a time and place and I’m there._ He says with a warm smile before throwing a wrench at the back of Peter’s head to distract from the Moment he was about to have.

One of the team’s favorite games to play is Throw Things at the Spider. With his crazy reflexes, the kid can catch anything at any time and there’s nothing more entertaining than flinging various kitchen utensils across the table and watching Peter catch them by the handle every time.

_I like your boyfriend,_ Clint tells Peter when he raises his eyebrow in their direction and lobs the wrench back across the room.

The teen smiles. _Me too._

“Hey guys,” Bruce pops his head into the workshop and catches the end of Peter’s sign. “Okay, wait,” he says before slowly signing: FOOD READY TODAY, then looks up at Clint with a hopeful smile.

The archer laughs. “Close, but not quite. If you’re trying to tell us that dinner is ready, you would sign,” he holds up his hands to demonstrate as he speaks, “NOW FOOD+NIGHT READY.”

“Ugh,” Bruce throws his hands up in frustration, “time, topic, comment, how could I forget?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get there.”

* * *

 

Thor laughs heartily.

“No, we simply ate the monotrough and buried its bones in the soil to honor the sacrifice of the war dogs.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Uh, the next time you ask the God of Thunder to tell a story,” Sam starts slowly, “please make sure he knows not to bring up disemboweled creatures at the dinner table.”

Thor frowns, confused. “Was this not a most appropriate venue for such tales?”

Tony pats him on the arm, a gentle smile on his face. “’Fraid not, big guy. You’ll get ‘em next time.”

“I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” Ned scoffs, wide eyed, “that was the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Peter makes an offended noise. “You’re dating a superhero and _that’s_ not the coolest thing?”

“Psh, no. Sorry, Spider-Boy. He’s a god.”

He throws his hands up and declares dejectedly, “One month and the honeymoon phase is over already.”

“Oh please,” MJ groans and rolls her eyes, “the honeymoon phase is most definitely not over. Trust me, I’ve seen it.”

“I’m confused,” Clint interrupts. “Are all three of you dating?”

“Me?” MJ raises her eyebrows, “Get caught up in that mess? Yeah, no, hard pass.”

“Uh, okay, rude.” Ned blinks at her.

“She’s not wrong though.” Peter shrugs. “We’re kind of a mess.”

“Hey, don’t knock the whole polyamory thing ‘til you try it,” Clint remarks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Even if it doesn’t last, it could lead to some amazing times.” His glance slides over to Natasha who launches a knife at his head almost too fast for anyone to track. The archer moves his head, smirk still in place, and the knife sails into the kitchen before landing neatly in the cork board behind the sink.

“Not another word,” she growls.

“Sure thing, сексуальный.”

Bucky stands abruptly. “Okay, dinner is over, thank you and goodnight. Steve, come help with the dishes?”

The blond is red in the face, but his smirk matches Clint’s. He recognizes the Russian; hears it often enough in his own bedroom to understand what’s going on. “Sure thing.” He pauses to raise a mischievous eyebrow at Nat. “Sexy.”

He, too, manages to duck out of the way of her knife and laughs his way into the kitchen.

Peter stands to start clearing away the dishes, but the adults wave him off.

“Go study for advanced nuclear physics, or whatever it is you genius kids are up to,” Sam insists, “we got this.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Thank you for dinner, Mr. Stark,” Ned says politely. MJ gives a soft, “ditto.”

“Anytime, kids. Thanks for keeping Peter out of trouble.” He winks at them. “And, please, it’s just Tony.”

MJ laughs. “As long as your own kid continues to call you mister, I think we’ll do the same.”

The room freezes.

“Shit, wait, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, you’re alright,” Tony quickly assures her, “Peter is free to call me whatever he’s comfortable with, as are the two of you.”

Peter, red in the face, doesn’t meet his eyes.

Ned grabs his boyfriend’s hand and starts to shuffle towards the hall. “Thanks again, Mr. Stark. We’re gonna go study for that chemistry final.”

The three teens make a hasty retreat and MJ is quick to apologize when they reach Peter’s room.

“I’m sorry for making things weird.”

He shrugs. “You have a point. I’m the one who makes it weird by insisting on calling him Mr. Stark.” He sighs, staring at his hands and picking at his nails. “I don’t know, calling him Tony feels like…” He trails off with another shrug.

“Sounds like you’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Ned suggests softly.

“It’s been almost a year,” MJ reminds him.

Peter nods. “I know. And I know that my place here is probably secure, I just—I dunno.”

“Maybe you should talk to Mr. Stark about this.” Ned takes Peter’s hand and waits until the shorter boy meets his eyes. “From what I’ve seen, there’s no ‘probably’ about it, Peter. They love you, you know.”

He ducks his head again and nods. “I know. Sometimes it just feels like I’m not good enough to live here, you know? Like, I don’t deserve to call Mr. Stark ‘Tony’ any more than I deserve to call myself an Avenger.”

“Peter—”

“Hey,” MJ interrupts whatever Ned was about to say, “are you forgetting the time you rescued half of our team from an elevator that was about to plunge down the Washington monument? Or what about the plane that you single-handedly took back from a super-villain? Or—”

“Okay, MJ, I hear you, but a couple of successes doesn’t mean anything; not compared to the people I live with, and I just don’t understand how they could want me as a permanent member of their family.”

“A couple of successes?” MJ protests aghast.

“So, you think you’re bad? That’s what this is all boiling down to?” Ned challenges evenly.

Peter slumps onto his bed, defeated. “No, I don’t think that. Not anymore. But these automatic thoughts are relying on things that I no longer believe in. ‘S hard to break the cycle, but I’m trying, okay?”

Ned and MJ collapse on the bed in similar fashions, each pressed into one of Peter’s sides.

“You’re stronger than you think, Parker,” MJ says lightly, “and you need to give yourself more credit. You belong on that team and you belong with that family.”

He lets a smile through and meets her eyes. “You’re right. I do.”

Ned sighs dreamily, resting his head on Peter’s shoulder. “My boyfriend’s a superhero,” he sing-songs into Peter’s ear.

“Oh, so you think I’m cool again?”

“Well yeah, Thor’s not here.”

Peter shoves him. “Fuck you, Leeds.”

“Is that a promise?”

MJ pretends to gag. “Can you two keep it PG for once? I just had to sit through an entire dinner recounting the story of your getting-together; that’s more than enough romance for the rest of my life, thanks.”

The boys laugh and chorus, “Sorry, MJ.”

“But really,” Peter puts his hand on her arm, “thank you for coming to dinner and taking some of the pressure off us.”

Ned nods. “Seriously, thanks. Meeting the Avengers for the first time was no where near as scary as having dinner with them as their kid’s boyfriend for the first time.”

“Yeah dude, I was scared for you. I thought for sure Cap was gonna punch you when Bucky made that joke about handjobs.”

“Ugh,” Ned buries his face in his hands, “please don’t put Captain America and handjobs in the same sentence ever again.”

* * *

 

“Aww, c’mon, Nat, don’t hold back.”

Peter, bent over and gasping for breath in the middle of the training floor, raises his eyebrows at Bucky. “ _That_ was holding back?”

“I haven’t broken anything yet, have I?” she taunts with a smirk, pretending to flick hair from her face while wiping away the sweat that has finally started to show after half an hour of sparring.

Peter, seeing the weakness, smirks back. “I’d like to see you try.”

And just like that, it’s on again. Natasha launches herself at Peter and sends them both sprawling onto the mats. He uses the momentum to flip them over and dances away from her kicks before grabbing the arm she’s using to hold herself up and…throwing her across the room.

She lands in a roll and takes a moment to breathe on one knee.

Peter’s heart stops.

“Shit, oh my god, Natasha, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I? Oh my god, I didn’t mean to do that, I swear, please don’t kill me in my sleep.”

He runs over to her as he begs for forgiveness and is shocked to see she’s only doubled over because she’s laughing.

“I’m fine, Peter, I’m fine,” she manages through hysterics, waving his concern away. “There’s just something about your tiny frame being able to toss me like a doll that I find funny.”

He looks around to see the rest of the team in a similar state and is unsurprised but no less chagrined when he notices Clint recording the whole thing on his phone.

“I, too, would like to partake in this sport!” Thor crows joyously as he bounds over to Peter, wasting no time before jumping into his arms, bridal style. 

The teen blinks. “Um.”

Tony sees Peter’s life flash before his eyes and hurries over to the pair. “You’re going to break him, you big lug! Get off!” He yells as he pulls at the arm that Thor doesn’t have wrapped around Peter’s neck.

Neither of them budge, and Peter’s growing smile at the ease with which he can carry a Norse god is almost frightening.

“Toss me as you did your spider comrade,” Thor requests, ignoring Tony’s refusal, “I wish to experience flight without the assist of Mjolnir.”

“I’ll give you a ride on one of my suits later, pointbreak. Get off my kid!”

Peter’s heart warms at the easy way Mr. Stark referred to him, but that doesn’t stop him from hurling the Asgardian across the room with only a small grunt of exertion.

The man is laughing before he hits the ground.

“Come, friends, experience the strength of the young spider.” He claps his hands like an excited child and Peter can’t help but match his grin.

Steve steps forward, arms raised and palms out. “Alright, hang on,” he orders. “Before we all start tossing each other into walls, perhaps there’s a better way to have some fun with your strength, Peter.”

“He’s right,” Bucky calls from across the room, “catch!”

The 100-pound dumbbell lands perfectly in Peter’s hands and he laughs, delighted by how light it feels. “Is that all you’ve got?”

The next item to come flying is a barbell with several plates on each side. He catches it one handed, and his grin goes from delighted to shit-eating.

Bruce steps forward, brain whirring behind intense eyes. “Bucky, how heavy is that?”

“Eight hundred pounds.” He looks as breathless as Peter feels.

When he makes to throw a heavier barbell, Steve steps forward again. “Hey!” He puts on his stern voice and barely suppresses an eye roll. He’s the Captain of a team of children. “If we want to let Peter flex his muscles, there’s a safer way to do so than to throw thousands of pounds of gym equipment at him. What happens when he reaches his limit?” The question is aimed at Bucky who has the sense to look chagrined.

“I don’t think there’s anything in here that can get close to my limit, Cap.”

He raises his eyebrows at the teen. “Big words, Spider Man.” The Captain Stare drops from his expression and he grins. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

By the time Peter feels winded, he’s holding four benches that Thor ripped out of the floor (much to Tony’s dismay), all of the weight plates the team could locate in the building after raiding the fourteen non-Avenger gyms, twenty dumbbells intricately stacked, and a treadmill that required a three-man tower of Cap, Bucky, and Thor to place on top.

“Do we have any idea how much weight that is?” Natasha hasn’t stopped laughing. Peter isn’t sure if he should be insulted or flattered.

“A shit ton,” Sam deadpans.

“More than just one shit ton,” Tony corrects him, shaking his head in awe, trying to process. “That’s over 8 tons of weight.”

Clint barks out a laugh. “Holy shit. Do you feel like you’re holding 16,000 pounds?”

“Nope.”

The man’s smile turns devious. “Alright then, hold it steady spider-boy.” And before anyone can stop him, he starts scaling the precarious tower in Peter’s arms.

“Clint, no!” Tony shouts.

He looks down with a smirk that says ‘Clint, yes’ and continues to climb to the top. Thor and Cap move to stand on either side of Peter, ready to catch the archer if the teen can’t hold him steady.

But the need to protect his teammate overwhelms any fatigue his muscles might be feeling and if anything, the weight becomes easier to carry. He deepens the bend in his knees to keep the stack from wobbling and breathes into the effort, ready to wait out Clint’s adventure.

When he makes it to the top, Steve only gives him a second to celebrate before he declares, with finality, “You’re compromising the safety of one of your teammates for the sake of being reckless. Get down. Now.”

In true Clint fashion, the man just rolls his eyes and scoffs, “Chill out,” before executing a smooth backflip into Thor’s waiting arms. He pecks the man on the cheek before turning the full force of his annoyed expression on Cap.

“Is it clear enough now that the kid is ready to get his butt back into that spandex?”

“There are ways to assess his abilities that don’t involve unnecessary risks.”

“Oh, come on, have a little more faith in him than that. I wasn’t in danger and neither was he. Right, Pete?”

He manages to shrug with his armful of weights and the stack wobbles precariously. “I knew I could hold it steady even before you started shaking the whole thing; you just gave me a reason to try harder.”

Clint’s grin is full of ‘I-told-you-so’ and Steve has to clench his fists against the desire to lay into him. Peter is fine. He’s better than fine. He didn’t get hurt under Steve’s supervision. Not this time.

“I don’t mean to interrupt this little standoff you two are having, but Cap, I need you and your muscles to start disassembling the 8 tons of weight in my kid’s arms before he passes out.”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m fine, Mr. Stark.”

“Forgive me for being worried about you holding…” he pauses to calculate in his head, “one hundred four times your weight.”

Clint coughs and rubs the back of his neck before muttering, “It’s actually one hundred fourteen times his weight.”

Tony freezes. “FRIDAY?”

The AI confirms, almost regretfully, “Agent Barton is correct.”

The man blinks several times. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Uh, hey guys?” Peter fights to keep the strain out of his voice. “I really am fine, but I kinda have to pee.”

The team jumps into action and makes quick work of dissembling the tower of weights, only snapping two of the dumbbells in half in the process when they were carelessly thrown on top of each other.

When they’re done, Peter shakes out his arms and surveys the scene with an unexpected tightness in his throat. Tony notices the change in his face immediately.

“Pete? You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just…” he shakes his head and laughs, “I did that.” He laughs breathlessly for another moment before elaborating, “A few months ago, a flight of stairs made me dizzy and now I can hold all of that,” he gestures at the mess surrounding them, “without breaking a sweat.” Peter smiles up at Mr. Stark, face full of pride. “I did that.”

Tony swallows passed his own rush of emotion before wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “Yeah, buddy, you did.”

“You really kicked recovery in the ass, huh?” Sam looks as proud as Tony feels.

The teen shrugs, biting back a smile. “I had a lot of help.”

“Nevertheless,” Thor steps forward and slaps a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder, “it is an honor to hold spot on a team with warriors so strong.”

“Spot on a team…” he turns to Mr. Stark, eyes wide, “does that mean—”

“With conditions,” the man interrupts sternly; but he’s smiling.

“Yeah, of course, totally, I’ll follow whatever rules, just—I can have my suit back?” He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“More than that, pal,” Bucky slips back into the room with Peter’s suit in his hands, “how do you feel about making your place on this team official?”

Peter gapes. “Like…Avengers official?” He searches the faces of the team…his team, and they all smile back at him encouragingly.

“Peter,” Steve comes to stand at Thor’s side, “you’ve overcome obstacles that most people would find incapacitating, you work hard in school, you’re committed to helping people, and you have the biggest heart of anyone in this room. Thor’s right; it’d be our honor if you’d become an official member of the Avengers.”

Peter covers his face and laughs again. “You can’t seriously believe that there’s a chance I’d say no, right?”

“Well, we think you’re ready, your treatment team thinks you’re ready, but do you feel--?”

“Hell yes!” Peter interrupts Mr. Stark’s question by throwing his arms around the man’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Tony laughs, pushing down the terror and letting Peter’s joy infect him. “Don’t thank me, kiddo, you did all the work, I’m just keeping my promise.”

* * *

 

* * *

 

“I can’t hold this on my own, Stark, I’m gonna lose ‘em.”

Bucky is gasping for breath, arms trembling under the weight of the tractor trailer that he’s holding above his head. The tires are rigged to blow if they make contact with the ground and there are approximately 45 civilian hostages trapped inside. The only way he’s letting this thing down is if he collapses under it.

“Hold tight, Barnes, we’ve got a situation at the bank,” Tony responds over the comms as he swoops in to fire a repulsor blast at a HYDRA agent who had a gun pointed toward Pet—Spiderman. “Report,” he orders the teen.

“Thirty-two hostages, ten hostiles, explosives in play,” he says evenly as he takes the opportunity to catch his breath.

The Avengers were called in at 0900 when it became clear the number of HYDRA assailants was going to be too much for military to handle. It has certainly been no walk in the park for the team, either. They’re approaching hour three of non-stop fighting, but the last wave of hostiles has just arrived and they’ve started fighting dirty in their desperation. Upwards of 500 civilians are being actively held hostage while another 2,000 are in the line of fire.

Peter’s orders are to evacuate civilians to safety, but it’s become a team effort as more and more innocent people are put in danger.

“Get those webs around the explosives and disable the hostiles,” Tony instructs, confident in his kid— _Spiderman’s_ ability to handle the situation, “you got this.”

Peter nods once, sharply. “Get to Bucky, I’m good here.”

On cue, Bucky groans, “Stark!” over the comms and the man immediately turns and takes off.

“On my way to your location, Barnes, give me 20 seconds.”

“Streets are secure from 12th to 18th, the danger is contained to 10th and Main,” Hawkeye reports.

“Get me eyes on that library,” Cap orders.

“Copy that.”

Natasha grunts as she finishes off the last of the twelve men that tried to corner her in an alley. “10th is secure, on my way to you, Cap.”

A bullet grazes Steve’s upper arm and he swears viciously. The assailant gets a shield to the sternum for his efforts. “Iron Man, Bucky, report.”

Tony manages to keep his voice even through decades of practice. “I can’t get this trailer opened without triggering the bombs; I’ve gotta disable them.”

“Can you do that?”

“Yeah, but it’s gonna take some time.”

“Bucky?”

A distressed groan is the only answer Steve gets and his heartrate increases.

“Go,” Sam swoops in to cover Cap’s six. “I’ll finish up here.”

“We’re good,” Nat confirms as she joins them, gun at the ready.

He doesn’t hesitate, bounding across abandoned cars and taking out stray HYDRA perps as he sprints to his lover’s side and immediately takes the weight of the tractor trailer. Bucky collapses.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he’s gasping, “j’st need a second to—to catch my breath.”

“Stress fractures in your wrist and a torn shoulder,” Tony reports FRIDAY’s findings absently as his intricate work on the bombs continues.

“Copy that,” comes Coulson’s voice in their ears, “Dr. Banner is readying the Quinjet.”

“Thor?”

“On my way, good captain,” is the immediate reply. He ducks under the trailer, grabs Bucky, and takes off again.

“How long can you hold this, Cap?” Tony asks.

“Long as you need me to,” comes the steady answer.

“Good man.”

Steve breathes in and out, letting the weight disperse evenly across his palms, down his arms, and into his core. These people are going to make it out safely even if it kills him.

“Six hostiles holding the library on Main hostage; semi-automatic weapons, but no bombs,” Clint reports. “I could use another sniper up here, Barnes.”

“He’s down for the count,” Sam informs him. “But I’m on my way.”

The archer mutters something about ‘second-rate snipers’ under his breath and Sam grins as he flies. “Soon as I’m done kicking HYDRA ass, I’m gonna kick yours.”

“Focus, people,” Cap reminds them.

Natasha’s voice comes over the comms, “Main square secure, SHIELD is in ready position for clean-up. We’re down to the library, the bank, and whatever the hell it is Cap and Iron Man are up to.”

“Oh, you know,” Tony drones, “we’re just hanging out here.”

“Having a grand old time,” Steve confirms.

She ignores their nonsense. “Where do you want me, Cap?”

He pauses. “Hawkeye?”

“We’re good here, Cap. Just about wrapped up.”

“Spiderman?”

There’s a beat of hesitation before a breathless reply comes through. “Yeah, uh, I could use a hand here.”

“Report,” Steve, Tony, and Coulson all bark at once.

“My webs, they—I thought—they’re supposed to neutralize the explosives but they’re not. I can’t—how am I supposed to secure ten hostiles, they can just throw a bomb at the hostages and—”

“I’m on my way to you, Spiderman,” Nat tells him, “hold position.”

“Copy.”

“SHEILD strike team is still 3 minutes out,” Coulson sounds strained. “Falcon, Hawkeye, can you get there sooner?”

“Yeah, just—” Clint grunts as he jumps from his perch and rolls out of the landing, “just need to get these people out.”

“James is secure with the good doctor,” Thor reports. “I will assist the young spider.”

“Please, hurry,” comes a quietly terrified request.

Tony starts swearing under his breath as he finally gets the last of the wires uncrossed. “Clear?” he confirms with FRIDAY.

“Clear.”

He helps Steve lower the truck to the ground before taking off towards the bank. He’s only a few hundred yards out when the screaming starts.

“Civilians taking fire! Repeat, civilians taking fire!” Peter is shouting over the comms.

Two of the ten assailants are incapacitated but the other eight all have explosives at the ready and there are thirty-two people in immediate danger. Peter is deadly focused.

He’s firing webs left and right, ripping weapons out of hands and tossing HYDRA agents around the room. His main concern is preventing a bomb from taking out the whole building, but the semi-automatic guns are no less of a threat to the innocent humans behind him.

The first pained scream is almost enough to tear his eyes from the hostiles.

Mercifully, Natasha bursts through the door in the same instant and she doesn’t spare a second to take in the scene before launching herself at the nearest Kevlar-suited man and knocking him unconscious.

“Here,” she tosses his gun to a competent-looking civilian, “fight back.”

The three of them fire at the five remaining assailants while the rest of the civilians try to squeeze themselves behind the counter. None of them see the grenade sail across the room, but they here it beep.

“No!” Peter shouts, helpless, as he watches Nat launch herself at, knowing that she’s too late.

When it detonates, the force sends her and nearby hostages flying, and they land in an unnatural heap.

“Widow is down!” he screams, “Hostages down! We need medical, now!”

Tony and Thor burst through the doors at the same time and Thor’s lightening makes quick work of the remaining assailants.

Tony rushes to Natasha’s side. “Pulse weak, no external bleeding, internal likely.” His eyes rake over the mess of bodies. “We’ve got at least ten civilians in critical condition.”

“Copy,” Coulson’s voice is like steel, “Medical is on their way.”

Peter stares at Natasha’s unconscious body until his eyes start to water. He blinks. There’s no time for that.

Steve gives a breathless report as he sprints to the bank. “HYDRA is down, all other civilians are safe and in the hands of local authority. SHEILD is already at the library.”

Clint gets there first. He marches straight over to Peter. “What happened?” he demands.

“She jumped on a grenade,” he reports, voice robotic.

The archer turns and hurls his bow at the wall before dropping to his knees at her side and taking her hand. He wasn’t there to watch her back and now she’s internally bleeding out.

“Spiderman?” Tony enters his line of vision and he blinks. “Peter? Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head, straining to look over Iron Man’s shoulder so he can see Clint hovering over Nat.

“She’s going to be okay, Peter, c’mon.” He ushers the teen out of the building and toward one of the quinjets waiting outside.

He plants his feet. “No, there’s—clean-up…we have to—”

“SHEILD and the police will finish up here. We’re done.”

“No, I have to—”

“Peter, we won, it’s over. It’s time to go home.”

“But all those people—”

“Are going to be taken care of by the best doctors in the country. You did good work today, Spiderman.” Tony remembers to add the praise because he knows exactly where Peter’s head is at right now. No doubt the kid is blaming himself for everything that went wrong.

He steers him into the ‘jet and sits him next to Bucky whose arm is in a sling. Once he locates a bottle of water and makes sure the kid isn’t going to collapse from shock, he moves to the front of the plane to update Bruce.

“Thor and Coulson are staying to help with clean-up, Cap will go with Nat and Clint to the hospital, and Sam is coming back with us.”

The man sighs, dragging a rough hand down his face, and nods. “How’s Peter?”

Tony makes a face. “Blaming himself, of course.”

“Hmm,” Bruce hands Tony a bottle of water and guides him into a seat. “Now, who does that remind you of?”

“Not the time, Banner,” he sighs.

“Isn’t it?” He raises a challenging eyebrow.

“Look, I just want to get us home. It’s been a long day.”

Bruce studies him for a long moment before nodding. “Alright, we’ll talk later.”

Tony tips the bottle toward him. “Can’t wait.”

* * *

 

The five Avengers have all showered and attempted to sleep by the time Thor returns, tired but otherwise no worse for wear, with updates.

“Son of Coul has joined our fallen and he has provided me with news, both good and not so.”

“Spill the beans, Pointbreak,” Tony orders, “we’ve been waiting for hours.” He’s pacing the common room, surrounded by Bruce, Bucky, and Sam; not wanting to wake Peter to give him news that might be difficult to hear.

“Lady Natasha will recover swiftly. Her left lung was damaged during her heroic act and the break in her leg necessitated surgery, but she will return to us this evening.”

The room lets out a collective breath.

“And the civilians?” Sam asks.

Thor’s expression takes a somber turn and Bruce winces. He knows that look.

“I’m afraid many fared not so well. We lost seven innocents in battle, and two remain unsteady through the day. However, I am told the remaining six will return to full strength.”

Tony blows out a long breath. That’s seven, possibly nine civilians that they couldn’t save. It’s been a while since they’ve had a toll so high.

“And how fare you, James? Your arm is healing?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be back to normal in a few days,” he brushes off the attention. “Do we have people contacting the families of the victims?”

“Coulson is on it,” Tony confirms.

Sam sits heavily onto the chair next to Bucky. “Damn,” he sighs. “Nine people.” He shakes his head slowly before voicing the question on everyone’s minds: “How the hell are we gonna break the news to Pete?”

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Really, he didn’t.

Peter heard Thor arrive and figured he was there to update the team. He knew it wasn’t going to be good news—he watched those bodies hit the floor—so he listened from the end of the hall.

Nine people dead or dying.

Natasha in a hospital bed.

Six innocent people badly injured and undoubtedly traumatized.

And all because Peter failed to do his job.

Cap got shot.

Bucky broke his arm.

Natasha.

Innocent people are dead, and Peter got to walk away.

His teammate was brave enough to jump on a grenade and Peter wasn’t fast enough to stop her; wasn’t aware enough to realize what was happening before it did; wasn’t good enough to prevent it from happening in the first place.

Nothing he did today was good enough. He failed his team, he failed the city, and he failed himself. He feels like he’s suffocating under the weight of it all.

Peter doesn’t remember walking into the kitchen and opening the utensil drawer. He doesn’t remember choosing the sharpest knife before rolling up his sleeve. He doesn’t remember taking the blade to his skin and making nine neat lines; one for each of the innocent victims.

When the pain registers and he realizes what he’s done, he screams.

“Tony!” He’s staring at his arm in horror, frozen in place. “Tony, help!”

When the man bursts into the kitchen ahead of the others, he stops his knees from giving out through sheer force of will. He keeps moving forward, ignoring his desire to freeze.

“Hey, Pete, it’s alright. You’re okay.”

The teen rips his gaze away from the bloody mess and meets Tony’s eyes. The glassy, far away look is something the man is intimately familiar with.

“Tony, Tony, I didn’t mean to, I swear!”

“It’s okay, pal,” Bucky soothes as he gently pries the knife out of Peter’s white-knuckled grip and tosses it into the sink.

Peter grabs Bucky’s metal arm, tears streaming down his face. “It was an accident, Bucky, please, you have to believe me.” His grip is so tight the metal plates start to grind against each other.

“It’s alright, Peter, we’re not mad.” Sam steps forward to wrap a towel around his arm and guides him toward the table, away from the mess on the floor.

“No, Sam, I mean it, I didn’t want to do this,” he pleads desperately.

“Shh, it’s okay, we can talk in a minute,” Bruce steps in with the medical kit he grabbed from the bathroom. “Let’s get cleaned up first, okay?”

He holds his arm out for Dr. Banner but turns his head into Mr. Stark’s chest and sobs. He alternates between frantic apologizing and begging for forgiveness. Efforts to console him go unnoticed so the man just holds him tight and lets him cry it out. It’s been one hell of a day for all of them; the extra stress on a mentally ill teenager who’s only been back in the field for a few weeks was bound to come crashing down on him.

Tony should have seen this coming.

Once sixteen stitches are neatly in place and the rest of the wounds are bandaged, Thor carries Peter into the common room and settles him on the couch. He clings to Tony but hasn’t stopped apologizing.

“All of those people,” he’s muttering, “their families—” he cuts himself off with a sob.

“Shh,” Tony rubs his hand up and down Peter’s back, “it’s going to be okay.”

“S’not,” he protests through the sobs, sniffling and hiccupping as he tries to get himself under control.

“Peter.” Sam is crouched in front of the couch and he puts a hand on the kid’s knee. “It’s normal to feel bad when people get hurt, but you can’t hurt yourself every time that happens.”

“No!” Peter’s cries double again and he struggles to make the man understand. “I told you I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know I was doing it, I—I don’t…” He looks up at Sam and admits, “I don’t know what happened.”

Bucky sits next to Peter and rests his injured shoulder against him. “Sounds like you dissociated for a minute, there.”

The teen shakes his head. He doesn’t want to believe that. “But I’ve never done that before.”

“And you’ve never been in a situation like this, have you?” Sam challenges.

Another head shake. “I don’t…” He’s quiet for a moment, swallowing passed the grief trying to drown him. “How do you guys do it?” he whispers, gaze in his lap. “How am I supposed to live with this?”

There’s a pause while the men exchange glances, unsure of how to proceed. Like usual, Sam steps up.

“Why don’t we go call your therapist and let her know what’s going on?” he suggests gently. “Then, when everyone is home tonight, we can sit down and talk about today. Does that sound okay?”

Peter shrugs. Nothing really sounds okay right now.

“C’mon.” Sam stands and reaches out a hand, pulling the reluctant teen away from Tony and leading him out of the room.

When he’s sure Peter is out of earshot, Tony leans forward to put his head in his hands and let’s out an unsteady breath.

“Tony?” Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have left him alone,” he mumbles into his palms.

“We thought he was sleeping,” Bucky reasons, “we didn’t know he was listening.”

“I knew today was too much for him, I shouldn’t have let—”

“Tony,” Bruce interrupts him. “You can’t protect him from everything.”

“I haven’t been protecting him from _anything_ , dammit. How am I supposed to help him get over his guilt when I can’t deal with my own? Fuck.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I’m not cut out for this.”

“For what? Being a father?”

He shakes Bruce’s hand off his shoulder. “I could _never_ be his father. I won’t burden him with the same bullshit my dad put me through and—”

“Tony.” This time it’s Bucky interrupting. “That kid looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars. That’s not an accident.”

“Hero worship isn’t the same as—”

“Enough, Man of Iron. I will not allow you to continue speaking of yourself this way. The Stark I know is generous and kind, warm and inviting, and he has been a most excellent father to our young spider.” Thor places a warm hand on Tony’s shoulder. “My own father could learn much from you.”

The man just shakes his head. “Thanks buddy, but it’s going to take a lot more therapy for me to believe that the King of Asgard is a worse father than I am.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Besides, being Peter’s legal guardian doesn’t make me his father.”

“It does if he wants it to,” Bucky replies softly.

“You know that’s what May wanted,” Bruce adds, just as quiet.

Tony shakes his head again. “I can’t do that to him right now. He’s not ready and neither am I.”

“Perhaps that makes now the most appropriate time,” Thor suggests. “In times of struggle we must band together with our loved ones and endure.”

“Look, I’m not trying to brush this off, but can we table this discussion for a day when we’re all in one piece?”

Bucky pats his knee as he stands. “Don’t hold your breath for that day, Stark. Comes with the territory.”

“Right. Occupational hazard,” Bruce mumbles with an eye roll before motioning Tony to follow him. “C’mon. Let’s make sure dinner is ready when they get home from the hospital. I’m making Clint’s favorite.”

“Hmm, good call,” Tony approves. “If anyone on this team does the guilt-ridden thing better than me and Peter, it’s Hawkeye.”

“Good thing he can’t resist my curry.”

* * *

 

The tense silence stretches on for several seconds before Sam finally clears his throat.

“A’ight, cool. Guess I’ll start then.”

He pauses to take in the uncomfortable postures of his teammates seated around him in the common room. They all agreed to sit down and talk to Peter about handling loss in the field once Nat was able to move around, but no one is particularly thrilled about sharing their feelings. They’ve all been through copious amounts of therapy at one time or another, but that doesn’t mean they enjoy it.

“Riley was more than my partner,” he starts softly with a smile, “he was my best friend. We enlisted together, trained together, got put on the same unit through sheer luck. When the FALCON program came to us, it was like every teenage fantasy we had of becoming heroes came true. I sure didn’t feel like a hero when I watched him get shot out of the sky.” He pauses, clearing his throat again. “For months, I agonized over what I could have done differently, how I could’ve been better, ‘til one day it occurred to me that Riley would’ve kicked my ass for wallowing in the past. You can’t change what’s already happened and we’re always going to face losses. Take each mistake, look at it just long enough to learn from it, and move on. You ain’t learning a damn thing if you’re drowning in guilt which means you ain’t doing nothing to prevent the next disaster. We owe it to the people we swore to protect to move on.”

Tony claps his hands. “Great job, birdie, we’re done here, right?”

“Nice try, Iron Man. I think it’s your turn.”

He sighs. “Look, we all know about my very public…what did they call it? Meltdown? After Afghanistan. I saw what my weapons were doing, and I destroyed them. I took the tragedy, learned from it, and changed. That’s all we can really do. Like Sam said, we’ve got to move on.”

“It gets easier,” Clint offers. “I remember the first time I pulled the trigger on someone, I threw up.”

Nat gives a rueful smile. “Me too.”

“Maybe it’s a little fucked up that death gets easier to deal with, but…” Bucky shrugs. “That’s the nature of the job we signed up for.”

Cap holds up his hands in a placating gesture and meets Peter’s eyes. “I know this is all easier said than done, but that’s what the team is here for. We lean on each other when things get rough.”

The teen lets out a shaky breath. “It just feels so…bad. I feel like I threw that grenade myself.”

“Peter, hear me on this one,” Steve starts firmly. “Those people didn’t die because you failed to save them. They died because HYDRA killed them.” He holds a hand up to stop Peter’s protest. “No, it’s not the same thing. Bad people try to hurt innocent ones every day. We try to save as many as we can and sometimes that doesn’t mean everybody. We’ve all made costly mistakes in the field; none of us are perfect. Whether or not you performed perfectly last week, you did everything you could to save those people. You know that, I know that, this whole team knows that.”

“But it wasn’t good enough,” he protests softly.

“Yeah, that happens sometimes,” Tony replies easily. “I wish it wasn’t true, but sometimes, no matter how hard we try to prevent it, people die. We can’t save everyone, Peter.”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” Sam adds, “but it does mean that we don’t beat ourselves up every time someone gets hurt.”

The teen frowns, ashamed. “That wasn’t my fault,” he mumbles, recalling the dissociative episode that led to him self-harming.

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the way you’ve been out patrolling more than you’ve been sleeping this week.”

“That’s not—”

“Peter,” Bruce stops him, “you’re not going to get rid of the guilt by throwing yourself into work. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Tony chuckles a quiet, “same.”

Peter sighs. “I just want to be better next time.”

“And you will be,” Nat says surely. “We’ll train more, drill more; you’ll get stronger and faster. And next time, someone will have your back before you’re in danger.”

Clint halts whatever protest he was about to give. “Just because you can watch your own back doesn’t mean you have to. Team, remember?”

“This team,” Thor commands the attention of the room with his booming voice, “full of warriors with such heart, none so full as the young spider. My fellow Asgardian warriors should look here for guidance; truly there is no greater honor than to serve with those of such well intentions. This planet is grateful for the existence of this team and this realm is all the better for it.”

“Well,” Sam blows out a long breath and raises his glass of water. “Amen to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Dialogue. 
> 
> Sorry for the wait, y'all! Endgame destroyed me and I lost motivation, then finals happened, and then and then and then...you know how it goes. 
> 
> I've been staring at this chapter for weeks trying to get it to suck less and I think (I hope) I got there eventually. Peter has come a long way in his recovery but he's still going to struggle with automatic thoughts and poor coping mechanisms. Luckily, he's surrounded by a team of people who have been through similar situations and know how to help. 
> 
> Thank you for the continued support in this verse. I mean it when I say that comments are everything to me and nothing makes me happier than people wanting to talk about my writing.   
> One more to go! Thanks for sticking around!


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